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8 1 •^ \V 



LITERATURE 



ENGLISH LANGUAGE; 



COMPRISING 



'§.t^xtBmintibt ^thdxom from i^^ '§t%i %nt\pxB, 



ALSO LISTS or 



CONTEMPORANEOUS WEITERS AND THEIR PRINCIPAL WORKS. 



By E. hunt, LL.D., 

BXAD MASTER GIRLS' HIGH AND NORMAL SCHOOL, BOSTON. 




IVISON, BLAKEMAN, TAYLOR, & COMPANY, 

NEW^ YORK AND CHICAGO. 




Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, 
By EPHRAIM HUNT, 
?ii the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washingto 




PEEFAOE. 



We believe no man should make a new text-book without sufficient ex- 
cuse. The object of this book is to illustrate the power and growth of the 
English language by representative selections from some of the most suc- 
cessful authors, and to introduce the student to those whose contributions 
to its literature are worthy his attention. It is believed, that by carefully 
studying and thoroughly committing to memory these selections, and 
other gems of thought and expression by the same authors, or others 
named, and of easy access, the pupil will not only make acquisitions of 
lifelong value, but by the daily repetition and frequent imitation of them 
in his own compositions, in the class-room, and out of it, he will also form 
Jiahits of expressing his own thoughts with greater force and elegance. 
In no branch of modern education is economy of time more important 
than in the study of English literature. The heterogeneous character of 
the language ; its wonderful flexibility ; its rapid assimilation of foreign 
elements ; its almost perfect reproduction of what is excellent in other 
languages, ancient and modern ; the activity of the English-speaking 
mind in finding out all kinds of knowledge, or in appropriating it when 
found out by others, — all conspire to make our literature a vast storehouse 
of the treasures of the past, and of the infinitely-diversified products of 
the present. To enable the student to enter this storehouse with pleas- 
ure, to distinguish the valuable from the worthless and indifferent, to 
economize his intellectual forces in the acquisition of knowledge, to re- 
fine his taste, to increase his love for all that is good, beautiful, and true, 
are the proper aims for school-discipline in the study of English litera- 
ture. To attain them, it must not be forgotten that all study is exhaus- 
tive of mental energy ; tJiat the brain works best by habit, like any other 
organ ; and, to develop a healthy activity of the faculties of the mind, 
they must not be burdened with superfluous weights. Learning the 
names and biographies of many authors Avhose complex relations with 
society he can not yet appreciate ; committing flippant, prejudiced, or 
partial criticisms of them and their works, of which he knows little or 

iii 



IV - PREFACE. 

nothing, — tend to give the student a c'ertain dazzling affectation of literary 
culture at the expense of an amount of brain-work, that, properly util- 
ized, would put him in possession of well-defined ideas of excellence 
of style, and enable him to form an intelligent and just estimate of an 
author's merit for himself, — a substantial attainment as valuable as it is 
rare. In the other great departments of learning, the student is not re- 
quired at first to learn the history of them, or of their patrons and suc- 
cessful promoters : on the contrary, his intellectual forces are at once 
employed in learning the general results already obtained in them, and 
the best methods of modern analysis and investigation. In chemistry, we 
do not begin with alchemy and the alchemists ; in astronomy, we do not 
begin Avith astrology and the absurd pretensions and aims of astrologers; 
neither do we stop at every short poem in mathematics, or grand epic 
in celestial mechanics, to learn the biography of the author, his relations 
to society and to science. In a similar manner, and mindful of the great 
influence of American thought and institutions upon the language, we 
believe it advisable to introduce the pupil to our most distinguished mod- 
ern authors first, and, while putting him in possession of the power and 
spirit of the literature of to-day, lead him back to the classical period, 
exciting his curiosity by the way to pursue its earlier history at his 
leisure. A few authors carefully studied would undoubtedly produce the 
most valuable results ; but, since tastes differ as to which ones should be so 
studied, it is thought a greater number, of unquestioned merit, ought to 
find a place in a text-book designed for drill in acquiring the best style 
of which the student is capable. The success of the plan, the selections 
and arrangement, is left to the judgment of my fellow-teachers, whose 
suggestions as to modifications in either will be gratefully acknowledged 
in any future edition. The want of a proper text-book to carry out the 
plan above indicated of teaching English literature is the only excuse for 
making this. Notes and criticisms are in the main omitted, since these 
selections are to be studied critically, the pupil using the dictionary and 
encyclopaedias with an industry equal to that given to the study of Greek 
and Latin. Our thanks are due to Messrs. Fields, Osgood, & Co., for 
special permission to select from their copyright editions of the works of 
Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Bry- 
ant's translation of Homer's Iliad ; also to Messrs. Harper & Bros., 
D. Appleton & Co., George P. Putnam & Son, for extracts from Motley, 

Bryant, and Irving, whose works they publish. 

THE COMPILER. 



0l!fTE]S"TS. 



PAGE. 

THEORY OF BEAUTY 1 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE... 16 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT: 

Thanatopsis 40 

The Conqueror's Grrave 42 

The Past 43 

The Evening Wind 45 

The Battle-Field 46 

The Antic[uity of Freedom 47 

Homer 48 

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW: 

A Psalm of Life 54 

The Reaper and the Flowers 55 

Footsteps of Angels 56 

The Beleagured City 57 

Maidenhood 58 

Excelsior 59 

The Building of the Ship 60 

Hiawatha's Wooing 63 

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.. 67 

The Eternal Goodness 68 

The Angels of Buena Vista 70 

The Barefoot Boy 72 

Snowbound 74 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES: 
Extract from Poetry: A Metrical 

Essay 77 

The Last Leaf 78 

Extract from the Autocrat of the 

Breakfast-Table 79 

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS: 

The Dying Alchemist 86 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: 

Notices of an Independent Press. . 89 
A Second Letter from B. Sawin, 

Esq 93 

EDGAR ALLAN POE : 

The Raven 100 



PAOB. 

HENRY WARD BEECHER: 

The Months 104 

A Discourse of Flowers 107 

Norwood. — Stories for Children . . 114 

The Anxious Leaf 116 

The Fairy Flower 117 

Coming and Going 120 

A New-England Sunday 122 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON: 

Napoleon, or the Man of the World, 131 

WASHINGTON IRVING 147 

Rip Van Winkle 148 

The Widow's Retinue 161 

Biography of Oliver Goldsmith . . . 163 
History of New York 170 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE: 

A Rill from the Town-Pump 175 

A Select Party 178 

WRITERS ON RELIGION, &c 189 

SCHOLARS, ESSAYISTS, AND 

CRITICS 190 

JAMES FENTMORE COOPER: 

The Capture of a Whale '192 

The Wreck of " The Ariel » 196 

AMERICAN NOVELISTS 200 

WRITERS ON PHILOSOPHY AND 

SCIENCE 201 

HISTORIANS, LAWYERS, POLITI- 
CIANS, AND BIOGRAPHERS, 202 

CHARLES DICKENS: 

Old Curiosity Shop 20S 

Pickwick. — The Dilemma 209 

Speech of Serjeant Buzfuz 213 

V 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE. 

WILLIAM M. THACKERAY 215 

Charity and Humor 216 

EMINENT ENGLISH NOVELISTS, 225 

ALFRED TENNYSON: 

In Memoriam 227 

The Charge of the Light Brigade. . 235 
Ode on the Death of the Duke of 
Wellington 236 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: 

Milton 242 

Despondency Corrected 243 

Thoughts on revisiting the Wye . . . 250 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWN- 
ING: 

Mother and Poet 251 

Aurora Leigh 254 

ENGLISH POETS AND DRAM^V- 

TISTS 264 

JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY: 

William of Orange 266 

CHARLES SUMNER: 

Finger-Point from Plymouth Rock, 275 
Expenses of War and Education 

compared 279 

Judicial Tribunals 280 

EDWARD EVERETT: 

Dudley Observatory 281 

Address before the New- York Ag- 
ricultural Society 283 

DANIEL WEBSTER: 

Eloquence 286 

Bunker-hill Monument 286 

Crime revealed by Conscience 288 

Reply to Hayne 289 

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE: 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner . 293 
Hymn, before Sunrise, in the Vale 
of Chamounix 301 

THOMAS HOOD: 

The Song of the Shirt 303 

The Bridge of Sighs 305 

A Parental Ode to my Infant Son. . 308 



PAoe. 
THOMAS CAMPBELL: 

Pleasures of Hope. 309 

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAU- 
LAY: 

The Prophecy of Capys 321 

Milton 328 

HISTORI^INS, BIOGRAPHERS, 

AND TRAVELERS 343 

THEOLOGIANS AND SCHOLARS, 345 

ESSAYISTS AND CRITICS 345 

WRITERS ON SCIENCE.. 346 

THOMAS CARLYLE: 

Oliver Cromwell 347 

THOMAS DE QLTNCEY: 

The Palimpsest 361 

CHARLES LAMB: 

A Quakers' Meeting 3'>8 

The Two Races of Men 372 

Modern Gallantry 374 

ESSAYISTS AND CRITICS 378 

SCIENTIFIC WRITERS AND 

SCHOLARS 378 

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON: 

The Dying Gladiator 379 

Apostrophe to the Ocean 380 

Lake Geneva 381 

Destruction of Sennacherib 382 

Darkness 383 

SIR WALTER SCOTT: 

The Lady of the Lake 385 

HISTORIANS AND TRAVELERS. 397 

NOVELISTS 398 

Wn.LIAM COWPER: 

The Timepiece 399 

ROBERT BURNS: 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 407 

To a Mountain Daisy. 411 

To Mary in Heaven 413 



CONTENTS. 



vu 



POETS AND DRAMATISTS 413 

EDMUND BURKE: 

Character of Junius 415 

Terror a Source of the Sublime 417 

Sympathy a Source of the Sublime, 418 
Uncertainty a Source of the Sub- 
lime 418 

Of Words 419 

The Common Effect of Poetry, not 

by raising Ideas of Things 419 

General Words before Ideas 421 

The Effects of Words 422 

To the English Nation 423 

To the Duke of Bedford 424 

Encomium on Lord Chatham 426 

To Lord Camden 427 

From his Letter to the King 428 

SAMUEL JOHNSON: 

Letter to Lord Chesterfield 431 

Extract from Preface to the Dic- 
tionary 432 

The Voyage of Life 433 

The Right Improvement of Time . . 437 

The Duty of Forgiveness 438 

Parallel between Dryden and Pope, 440 
Shakspeare 442 

DAVID HUME: 

Of the Standard of Taste 445 

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN: 

The Way to Wealth 452 

A Parable against Persecution 455 

The Whistle 456 

Turning the Grindstone 458 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH 458 

The Deserted Village 459 

[THOMAS GRAY: 

Elegy written in a Country Church- 
yard 467 

POETS AND PROSE WRITERS... 470 

ALEXANDER POPE: 

Essay on Man 472 

JONATHAN SWIFT 483 

Gulliver's Travels to Brobdingnag. 484 



PAOE. 

DANIEL DEFOE: 

Robinson Crusoe 498 

Robinson Crusoe discovers the 

Footprint 602 

JOSEPH ADDISON: 

Bickerstaff learning Fencing 506 

On the Use of the Fan 507 

The Lover's Leap 510 

Dissection of a Beaii's Head 612 

Dissection of a Coquette's Heart.. . 511: 

Visit to Sir Roger in the Country. . 516 

Sir Roger at Church 518 

DISTINGUISHED WRITERS 520 

JOHN DRYDEN: 

Translation of Virgil 521 

JOHN BUNYAN: 

Valiant's Story 532 

SAMUEL BUTLER: 

Description of Hudibras 543 

DISTINGUISHED WRITERS 547 

JOHN MILTON: 

Paradise Lost 548 

DISTLN-GUISHED WRITERS 558 

FRANCIS BACON: 

Studies 559 

Of Boldness 560 

Of Goodness, and Goodness of Na- 
ture 501 

THE BIBLE: 

David 563 

Isaiah 563 

St. Paul 664 

WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE 565 

Julius Caesar 566 

EDMUND SPENSER: 

The Knight and the Lady 619 

DISTINGUISHED WRITERS 622 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER: 

The Parson 625 



VIU 



CONTENTS. 



PAQB. 

EARLY WRITERS 626 



SIR JOHN DE MANDEVILLE 628 

The Prologue 629 



I 



PAOB. 

SOURCES OP THE ENGLISH LAN- 
GUAGE 629 

SOURCES OP ENGLISH LITERA- 
TURE 633 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THEORY OF BEAUTY. 

Edinburgh Review, May, 1811. 



Objection-s against tlie notion of beauty being a simple sen- 
sation or the object of a separate and peculiar faculty : — 

1. The first is the want of agreement as to the presence and 
existence of beauty in particular objects among men whose organ- 
ization is perfect, and who are plainly possessed of tlie faculty, 
whatever it may be, by which beauty is discerned. Now, no 
such thing happens, we imagine, or can be conceived to happen, 
in the case of any other simple sensation, or the exercise of any 
other distinct faculty. Where one man sees light, all men who 
have eyes see light also. All men allow grass to be green, and sugar 
to be sweet, and ice to be cold; and the unavoidable inference 
from any apparent disagreement in such matters necessarily is, 
that the party is insane, or entirely destitute of the sense or 
organ concerned in the perception. With regard to beauty, how- 
ever, it is obvious at first sight that the case is entirely different. 
One man sees it perpetually, where to another it is quite invisible, 
or even where its reverse seems to be conspicuous. How can we 
believe, then, that beauty is the object of a peculiar sense or 
faculty, when persons undoubtedly possessed of the faculty, and 
even in an eminent degree, can discover nothing of it in objects 
where it is distinctly felt and perceived by others with the same 
use of the faculty ? 

This one consideration appears to us conclusive against the 
supposition of beauty being a real property of objects, addressing 
itself to the power of taste as a separate sense or faculty ; and it 
seems to point irresistibly to the conclusion, that our sense of it 
is the result of other more elementary feelings, into which it may 
be analyzed or resolved. 

1 ^ I 



2 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

2. A second objection, however, if possible of still greater force, 
is suggested by considering the prodigious and almost infinite 
variety of things to which this property of beauty is ascribed, 
and the impossibility of imagining any one inherent quality 
which can belong to them all, and yet at the same time possess ' 
so much unity as to pass universally by the same name, and be 
recognized as the peculiar object of a separate sense or faculty. 
The form of a fine tree is beautiful, and the form of a fine wo- 
man, and the form of a column, and a vase, and a chandelier. 
Yet how can it be said that the form of a woman has any thing 
in common with that of a tree or a temple ? or to which of 
the senses by Avhich forms are distinguished can it be supposed to 
appear that they have any resemblance or affinity ? 

3. The matter, however, becomes still more inextricable when 
we recollect that beauty does not belong merely to forms or colors, 
but to sounds, and perhaps to the objects of other senses ; nay, 
that, in all languages and in all nations, it is not supposed to 
reside exclusively in material objects, but to belong also to senti- 
ments and ideas, and intellectual and moral existences. Not 
only is a tree beautiful, as well as a palace or a waterfall ; but a 
poem is beautiful, and a theorem in mathematics, and a contri- 
vance in mechanics. But, if things intellectual and totally segre- 
gated from matter may thus possess beauty, how can it possibly 
be a quality of material objects ? or what sense or faculty can 
that be whose proper office it is to intimate to us the existence of 
some property which is common to a flower and a demonstration, 
a valley and an eloquent discourse ? 

4. It may be said, then, in answer to the questions we have 
suggested above, that all these objects, however various and dis- 
similar, agree at least in being agreeable ; and that this agreeable- 
ness, which is the only quality they j)ossess in common, may 
probably be the beaut}'- which is ascribed to them all. Now, to 
those who are accustomed to such discussions, it would be quite 
enough to reply, that, though the agreeableness of such objects 
depends plainly enough upon their beauty, it by no means follows, 
but quite the contrary'', that their beauty depends upon their 
agreeableness ; the latter being the more comprehensive or generic 
term, under which beauty must rank as one of the species. Its 
nature, therefore, is no more explained, nor is less absurdity sub- 
stantiall}^ committed, by saying that things are beautiful because 
they are agreeable, than if we were to give the same explanation 
of the sweetness of sugar ; for no one, we suppose, will dispute, 
that, though it be very true that sugar is agreeable because it is 
sweet, it would be manifestly preposterous to say that it was 
sweet because it was agreeable. 

5. In the first place, then, it seems evident that agreeableness 



THEORY OF BEAUTY. 3 

in general can not be the same with beauty, because there are 
very many things in the higliest degree agreeable that can in no 
sense be called beautiful. Moderate heat, and savory food, and rest 
and exercise, are agreeable to the body ; but none of these can be 
called beautiful: and, among objects of a higher class, the love 
and esteem of others, and fame, and a good conscience, and 
health and riches and wisdom, are all eminently agreeable, but 
none at all beautiful according to any intelligible use of the 
word. It is plainly quite absurd, therefore, to say that beauty 
consists in agreeableness, without specifjdng in consequence of 
what it is agreeable ; or to hold that any thing whatever is 
taught as to its nature by merely classing it among our pleasura- 
ble emotions. 

6. In the second place, however, we may remark, that among all 
the objects that are agreeable, whether they are also beautiful or 
not, scarcely any two are agreeable on account of the same quali- 
ties, or even suggest their agreeableness to the same faculty or 
organ. Most certainly there is no resemblance or affinity what- 
ever between the qualities which make a peach agreeable to the 
palate, and a beautiful statue to the eye ; which soothe us in an 
easy-chair by the fire, or delight us in a philosophical discovery. 
The truth is, that agreeableness is not properly a quality of any 
object whatsoever, but the eiiect or result of certain qualities, the 
nature of which, in every particular instance, we can generally 
define pretty exactly, or of which we know at least with certainty 
that they manifest themselves respectively to some one particular 
sense or facult}^, and to no other ; and, consequentlj^ it would be 
just as obviously ridiculous to suppose a facult}^ or organ whose 
office it was to perceive agreeableness in general, as to suppose 
that agreeableness was a distinct quality that could thus be 

: perceived. 

7. The words "beauty" and '-beautiful," in short, do and must 
i mean something, and are universally felt to mean something, 
I much more definite than agreeableness or gratification in general ; 

and, while it is confessedly by no means easy to describe or define 
i what that something is, the force and clearness of our perception 
:of it is demonstrated by the readiness with which we determine, 
I in any particular instance, whether the object of a given pleas- 
1 arable emotion is or is not properly described as beaut3^ 

8. In our opinion, our sense of beauty depends entirel}' on our 
previous experience of simpler pleasures or emotions, and con- 
sists in the suggestion of agreeable or interesting sensations with 
which we had formerly been made familiar b}^ the direct and 
intelligible agencj^ of our common sensibilities; and that vast 
variety of objects to which we give the common name of beauti- 
ful become entitled to that appellation merely because they all 



4 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

possess the power of recalling or reflecting those sensations of 
which they liave been the accompaniments, or with which they 
have been associated in our imagination by any other more casual 
bond of connection. According to this v-iew of the matter, there- 
fore, beauty is not an inherent property or quality of objects at 
all, but the result of the accidental relations in which they may 
stand to our experience of pleasures or emotions ; and does not 
depend upon any particular configuration of parts, proportions, or 
colors, in external things, nor upon the unity, coherence, or sim- 
plicity of intellectual creations, but merely upon the associations, 
which, in the case of every individual, may enable these inherent 
and otherwise indifferent qualities to suggest or recall to the 
mind emotions of a pleasurable or interesting description. It 
follows, therefore, that no object is beautiful in itself, or could 
appear so antecedent to our experience of direct pleasures or emo- 
tions ; and that, as an infinite variety of objects may thus reflect 
interesting ideas, so all of them may acquire the title of beauti- 
ful, althougli utterly diverse and disparate in their nature, and 
possessing nothing in common but this accidental power of re- 
minding us of other emotions. 

9. This tlieory, which, we believe, is now yery generally adopted, 
though under many needless qualifications, shall be further de- 
veloped and illustrated in the sequel: but at present we shall 
only remark, that it serves, at least, to solve the great problem 
involved in the discussion, by rendering it easily conceivable how 
objects which have no inherent resemblance, nor, indeed, any one 
qualitj^ in common, should yet be united in one common relation, 
and consequently acquire one common name ; just as all the 
things that belonged to a beloved individual may serve to remind 
lis of him, and thus to awake a kindred class of emotions, though 
just as unlike each other as any of the objects that are classed 
under the general name of Beautiful. 

By the help of the same consideration, we get rid of all the 
mystery of a peculiar sense or faculty, imagined for the express 
purpose of perceiving beauty; and discover that the power of 
taste is nothing more than the habit of tracing those associations 
by which almost all objects may be connected with interesting 
emotions. 

10. The beauty which we impute to outward objects is nothing 
more than the reflection of our own inward emotions, and is 
made up entirely of certain little portions of love, pity, or other 
affections, which have been connected with these objects, and still 
adhere, as it were, to them, and move us anew whenever they are 
presented to our observation. Before proceeding to bring any 
proof of the truth of this proposition, there are two things that 
it may be proper to explain a little more distinctly : First, what 



THEOEY OF BEAUTY. 5 

are the primary affections, by the suggestion of which we think 
the sense of beauty is produced ? and, secondly, What is the 
nature of the connection by which we suppose that the objects 
we call beautiful are enabled to suggest these affections ? 

11. With regard to the first of these points, it fortunately is 
not necessary either to enter into any tedious details, or to have 
recourse to any nice distinctions. All sensations that are not 
absolutely indifferent, and are, at the same time, either agreeable 
when experienced by ourselves, or attractive when contemplated 
in others, may form the foundation of the emotions of sublimity 
or beauty. 

The sum of the whole is, that every feeling which it is agree- 
able to experience, to recall, or to witness, may become the source 
of beauty in external objects when it is so connected with them 
as that their appearance reminds us of that feeling. 

12. Our 2yro2:)osition, then, is, that these emotions are not origi- 
nal emotions, nor jyrodiiGed directly hy any ^material qualities in 
the objects loliich excite them, but are reflections, or images, of 
the inore radical and familiar emotions to which we have already 
alluded ; and are occasioned, not by any inherent virtue in the 
objects before us, but by the accidents, if tue may so express oicr- 
selves, by tuhich these "may have been enabled to suggest or recall 
to us our 0W71 past sensations or sympathies. 

13. We might almost venture, indeed, to lay it down as an 
axiom, that, except in the plain and palpable case of bodily pain 
or pleasure, we can never be interested in any thing but the for- 
tunes of sentient beings; and that every thing partaking of the 
nature of mental emotion must have for its object tlie feelings, 
past, present, or possible, of something capable of sensation. In- 
dependent, therefore, of all evidence, and without the help of any 
explanation, we should have been apt to conclude that the emo- 
tions of beauty and sublimity must have for their objects the 
sufferings or enjoyments of sentient beings ; and to reject as in- 
trinsically absurd and incredible the supposition that material 
objects, which obviously do neither hurt nor delight the body, 
should yet excite, by their mere physical qualities, the very pow- 
erful emotions which are sometimes excited by the spectacle of 
beauty. 

II. 

14 It appears to us, then, that objects are sublime or beautiful, 
first, when they are the natural signs and perpetual concomitants 
of pleasurable sensations, or, at any rate, of some lively feeling or 
emotion in ourselves or in some other sentient beings ; or, secondly, 
when they are the arbitrary or accidental concomitants of such 
feelings; or, thirdly, when they bear some analogy or fanciful 



6 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

resemblance to things with which these emotions are necessarily, 
connected. 

15. The most obvious and the strongest association that can b 
established between inward feelings and external objects is where 
the object is necessarily and universally connected with the feeling 
by the law of Nature, so that it is always presented to the senses 
when the feeling is impressed npon the mind : as the sight or 
the sound of laughter with the feeling of gayety ; of Aveeping, 
with distress ; of the sound of thunder, with ideas of danger and 
power. Let us dwell for a moment on the last instance. Noth- 
ing, perhaps, in the whole range of Nature, is more strikingl}' and 
universally sublime than the sound we have just mentioned ; yet 
it seems obvious that the sense of sublimity is produced, not by 
any quality that is perceived by the ear, but altogether by the 
impression of power and of danger that is necessarily made upon 
the mind whenever that sound is heard. That it is not produced 
by any peculiarity in the sound itself is certain, from the mistakes 
that are frequently made with regard to it. The noise of a cart 
rattling over the stones is often mistaken for thunder ; and, as 
long as the mistake lasts, this very vulgar and insignificant noise 
is actually felt to be prodigiously sublime. It is so felt, however, 
it is perfectly plain, merely because it is then associated with ideas 
of prodigious power and undefined danger; and the sublimity is 
accordingly destroyed the moment the association is dissolved, 
though the sound itself, and its effect on the organ, continue 
exactly the same. This, therefore, is an instance in which sub- 
limity is distinctly proved to consist, not in any physical quality 
of the object to which it is ascribed, but in its necessary connec- 
tion with that vast and uncontrolled Power which is the natural 
object of awe and veneration. 

16. We may now take an example a little less plain and element- 
ary. The most beautiful object in Nature, perhaps, is the counte- 
nance of a young and beautiful woman ; and we are apt at first to 
imagine, that, independent of all associations, the form and colors 
which it displays are in themselves lovely and engaging, and 
would appear charming to all beholders, with whatever other 
qualities or impressions they might happen to be connected. A 
very little reflection, however, will probably be sufficient to con- 
vince us of the fallacy of this impression, and to satisfy us that 
what w^e admire is not a combination of forms and colors (which 
could never excite any mental emotion), but a collection of signs 
and tokens of certain mental feelings and affections, which are 
universally recognized as the proper objects of love and sympathy. 
Laying aside the emotions arising from diiference of sex, and sup- 
posing female beauty to be contemplated by the pure and unen- 
vying eye of a female, it seems quite obvious, that, among its 



f 



THEORY OF BEAUTY. V 

ingredients, we should trace the signs of two different sets of 
qualities, that are neither of them the object of sight, but of a 
far higher faculty, — in tlie first place, of youth and health ; and, 
in the second place, of innocence, gayety, sensibility, intelligence, 
delicacy, or vivacity. 

17. That the beauty of a living and sentient creature should de- 
pend, in a great degree, upon qualities peculiar to such a creature, 
rather than upon the mere physical attributes which it may pos- 
sess in common with the inert matter around it, can not, indeed, 
appear a very improbable supposition to any one. But it may be 
more difficult for some persons to understand how the beauty of 
mere dead matter should be derived from the feelings and sym- 
pathies of sentient beings. It is absolutely necessary, therefore, 
that we should give an instance or two of this derivation also. 

18. It is easy enough to understand how the sight of a picture or 
statue should affect us nearly in the same way as the sight of the 
original ; nor is it much more difficult to conceive how the sight 
of a cottage should give us something of the same feeling as the 
sight of a peasant's family, and the aspect of a town raise many 
of the same ideas as the appearance of a multitude of persons. 
We may begin, therefore, with an example a little more compli- 
cated. Take, for instance, the case of a common English land- 
scape, — green meadows, with grazing and ruminating cattle; 
canals or navigable rivers; well-fenced, well-cultivated fields; 
neat, clean, scattered cottages ; humble antique churches, with 
churchyard elms and crossing hedgerows, — all seen under bright 
skies and in good weather. There is much beauty, as every one 
will acknowledge, in such a scene. But in what does the beauty 
consist ? Not certainly in the mere mixture of colors and forms, 
— for colors more pleasing, and lines more graceful (according to 
any theorj^ of grace that may be preferred), might be spread upon 
a board or a painter's palette, without engaging the eye to a second 
glance, or raising the least emotion in the mind, — but in the pic- 
ture of human happiness that is presented to our imaginations 
and affections ; in tlie visible and unequivocal signs of comfort, 
and cheerful and peaceful enjoyment, and of that secure and 
successful industry that insures its continuance ; and of the piety 
by which it is exalted ; and of the simplicity by which it is con- 
trasted with the guilt and the fever of a city life ; in the images 
of health and temperance and plenty which it exhibits to every 
eye; and in the glimpses whicli it affords, to warmer imaginations, 
of those primitive or fabulous times when man was uncorrupted 
by luxury and ambition; and of those humble retreats in which 
we still delight to imagine that love and philosoph}^ may find an 
unpolluted asylum. At all events, however, it is human feeling 
that excites our sympathj^, and forms the true object of our emo- 



8 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

tions. It is man, and man alone, that we see in the beauties of 
the earth which he inhabits; or, if a more sensitive and extended 
sympathy connect us with the lower families of animated nature, 
and make us rejoice with the lambs that bleat on the uplands, or 
the cattle that repose in the valley, or even with the living plants 
that drink the bright sun and the balmy air beside them, it is 
still the idea of enjoyment — -of feelings that animate the exist- 
ence of sentient beings — that calls forth all our emotions, and is 
the parent of all the beauty with which we proceed to invest the 
inanimate creation around us. 

19. Instead of this quiet and tame English landscape, let us now 
take a Welsh or a Highland scene, and see whether its beauties 
will admit of being explained on the same principle. Here we 
shall have lofty mountains, and rocky and lonely recesses ; tufted 
woods hung over precipices ; lakes intersected with castled prom- 
ontories ; ample solitudes of unplowed and untrodden valleys ; 
nameless and gigantic ruins ; and mountain-echoes repeating 
the scream of the eagle and the roar of the cataract. This, too, 
is beautiful ; and, to those who can interpret the language it 
speaks, far more beautiful than the prosperous scene with which 
we have contrasted it. Yet, lonely as it is, it is to the recollection 
of man and the suggestion of human feelings that its beauty also 
is owing. The mere forms and colors that compose its visible 
appearance are no more capable of exciting any emotion in the 
mind than the forms and colors of a Turkey carpet. It is sym- 
pathy with the present or the past, or the imaginary inhabitants 
of such a region, that alone gives it either interest or beauty ; and 
the delight of those who behold it will always be found to be in 
exact proportion to the force of their imaginations and the 
warmth of their social aifections. The leading impressions here 
are those of romantic seclusion and primeval simplicity, — lovers 
sequestered in these blissful solitudes, "from towns and toils 
remote ; " and rustic poets and philosophers communing with 
Nature, and at a distance from the low pursuits and selfish malig- 
nity of ordinary mortals. Then there is the sublime impression 
of the mighty Power which piled the massive cliffs upon each 
other, and rent the mountains asunder, and scattered their giant 
fragments at their base ; and all the images connected ^vith the 
monuments of ancient magnificence and extinguished hostilitj^, — 
the feuds and the combats and the triumphs of its wild and 
primitive inhabitants, contrasted with the stillness and desolation 
of the scenes where they lie interred; and the romantic ideas 
attached to their ancient traditions, and the peculiarities of the 
actual life of their descendants, — their wild and enthusiastic 
poetry, their gloomy superstitions, their attachment to their 
chiefs, the dangers and the hardships and enjoyments of their 



THEORY OF BEAUTY. 9 

lonely huntings and fishings, their pastoral shielings on the 
mountains in summer, and the tales and the sports that amuse 
the little groups that are frozen into their vast and trackless 
valleys in the winter. 

20. Kindred conceptions constitute all the beauty of childhood. 
Thd forms and colors that are peculiar to that age are not neces- 
sarily or absolutely beautiful in themselves; for, in a grown 
person, the same forms and colors would be either ludicrous or 
disgusting. It is their indestructible connection with the engaging 
ideas of innocence, of careless gayety, of unsuspecting confidence ; 
made still more tender and attractive by the recollection of help- 
lessness and blameless and happy ignorance, of the anxious 
affection that watches over all their ways, and of the hopes and 
fears that seek to pierce futurity for those who have neither fears 
nor cares nor anxieties for themselves. 

21. The general theory must be very greatly confirmed by the 
slightest consideration of the second class of cases, or those in 
which the external object is not the natural and necessarj^, but 
only the occasional or accidental, concomitant of the emotion 
which it recalls. In the former instances, some conception of 
beauty seems to be inseparable from the appearance of the 
objects ; and being impressed, in some degree, upon all persons to 
whom they are presented, there is evidently room for insinuating 
that it is an independent and intrinsic quality of their nature, and 
does not arise from association witli any tiling else. In the 
instances, however, to which we are now to allude, this percej^tion 
of beauty is not universal, but entirely dependent upon the oppor- 
tunities which each individual has had to associate ideas of 
emotion with the object to which it is ascribed; the same thing 
appearing beautiful to those who have been exposed to the 
influence of such associations, and indifferent to those who have 
not. Such instances, therefore, really afford an experimentum 
crucis * as to the truth of the theory in question ; nor is it easy to 
conceive any more complete evidence, both that there is no such 
thing as absolute or intrinsic beaut}^, and that it depends 
altogether on those associations with which it is thus found to 
come and to disappear. 

22. The accidental or arbitrary relations that may thus be 
established between natural sympathies or emotions and external 
objects may be either such as occur to whole classes of men, or 
are confined to particular individuals. Among the former, those 
that appl}^ to different nations or races of men are the most 
important and remarkable, and constitute the basis of those 
peculiarities by which national tastes are distinguished. Take 

* •' A decisive experiment." 



10 E1!TGLISH LITERATURE. 

again, for example, the instance of female beauty, and think 
what different and inconsistent standards would be fixed for it in 
the different regions of the world, — -in Africa, in Asia, and in 
Europe ; in Tartary and in Greece ; in Lapland, Patagonia, and 
Circassia. If there was any thing absolutely or intrinsically 
beautiful in any of the forms thus distinguished, it is inconceiv- 
able that men should differ so outrageously in their conceptions 
of it. If beauty were a real and independent quality, it seems 
impossible that it should be distinctly and clearly felt by one set 
of persons, where another set, altogether as sensitive, could see 
nothing but its opposite ; and if it were actually and inseparably 
attached to certain forms, colors, or proportions, it must appear 
utterly inexplicable that it should be felt and perceived in the 
most opposite forms and proportion in objects of the same 
description. On the other hand, if all beauty consist in reminding 
us of certain natural sympathies and objects of emotion with 
which they have been habitually connected, it is easy to perceive 
how the most different forms should be felt to be equally beautiful. 
If female beauty, for instance, consist in the visible signs and 
expressions of youth and health, and of gentleness, vivacity, 
and kindness, then it will necessarily happen that the forms and 
colors and proportions which Kature may have connected with 
those qualities, in the different climates or regions of the world, 
will all appear equally beautiful to those who have been accustomed 
to recognize thein as the signs of such qualities; while they will 
be respectively indifferent to those who have not learned to inter- 
pret them in this sense, and displeasing to those whom experience 
has led to consider them as the signs of opposite qualities. 

23. The case is the same, though perhaps to a smaller degree, as 
to the peculiarity of national taste in other particulars. The style 
of dress and architecture in every nation, if not adopted from mere 
want of skill, or penury of materials, always appears beautiful to 
the natives, and somewhat monstrous and absurd to foreigners ; 
and the general character and aspect of their landscape, in like 
manner, if not associated with substantial evils and inconveni- 
ences, always appears more beautiful and enchanting than the 
scenery of any other region. The fact is still more striking, 
perhaps, in the case of music, — in the effects of those national 
airs with which even the most uncultivated imaginations have 
connected so many interesting recollections, and in the delight 
with which all persons of sensibility catch the strains of their 
native melodies in strange or in distant lands. It is owing chiefly 
to the same sort of arbitrary and national association that white 
is thought a gay color in Europe, where it is used at weddings, 
and a dismal color in China, where it is used for mourning ; that 
we think yew-trees gloomy because they are planted in church- 



THEORY OF BEAUTY. 11 

yards, and large masses of powdered horse-hair majestic because 
we see them on the heads of judges and bishops. 

24. Next to those curious instances of arbitrary or limited as- 
sociations that are exemplified in the diversities of national taste 
are those that are produced by the differences of instruction or edu- 
cation. If external objects were sublime and beautiful in them- 
selves, it is plain that they would appear equally so to those who 
were acquainted with their origin and to those to whom it was 
unknown. Yet it is not easy, perhaps, to calculate the degree to 
which our notions of beauty and sublimit}^ are now influenced, 
over all Europe, by the study of classical literature ; or the number 
of impressions of this sort which the well-educated consequently 
receive from objects that are utterly indifferent to uninstructed 
persons of the same natural sensibility. 

25. The influences of the same studies may be traced, indeed, 
through almost all our impressions of beauty, and especially in the 
feelings which we receive from the contemplation of rural scenery, 
where the images and recollections which have been associated 
with such objects in the enchanting strains of the poets are 
perpetually recalled by their appearance, and give an interest and 
a beauty to the prospect of which the uninstructed can not have 
the slightest perception. Upon this subject, also, Mr. Alison has 
expressed himself with his usual warmth and elegance. After 
observing, that, in childhood, the beauties of Nature have scarcely 
an}^ existence for those who have as yet but little general sjnn- 
pathy with mankind, he proceeds to state that they are usually 
first recommended to notice by the poets, to whom we are intro- 
duced in the course of education, and who, in a manner, create 
them for us by the associations which thej^ enable us to form 
with their visible appearance."* 

26. Before entirely leaving this branch of the subject, however, 
let us pause for a moment on the familiar but very striking and 
decisive instance of our varying and contradictory judgments as 
to the beauty of the successive fashions of dress that have existed 
within our own remembrance. All persons who still continue to 
find amusement in society, and are not old enough to enjoy only 
the recollections of their youth, think the prevailing fashions 
becoming and graceful, and the fashions of twenty or twenty-five 
years old intolerably ugly and ridiculous. The younger they are, 
and the more they mix in society, the stronger is this impression: 
and the fact is worth noticing; because there is really no one 
thing as to which persons judging merely from their feelings, and 
therefore less likely to be misled by any S3^stems or theories, are 
so very positive and decided, as that established fashions are 

* See AKson on Taste. 




12 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

beautiful in themselves, and that exploded fashions are intrinsic- 
ally and beyond all question preposterous and ugly. We have 
never yet met a young lady or gentleman, who spoke from their 
hearts and without reserve, who had the least doubt on the sub- 
ject, or could conceive how any person could be so stupid as not 
to see the intrinsic elegance of the reigning mode, or not to be 
struck with the ludicrous awkwardness of the habits in which 
their mothers were disguised. 

27. In all the cases we have hitherto considered, the external 
object is supposed to have acquired its beauty by being actually 
connected with the causes of our natural emotions, either as a 
constant sign of their existence, or as being casually present on 
the ordinary occasions of their excitement. There is a relation, 
however, of another kind, to which also it is necessary to attend, 
both to elucidate the general grounds of the theory, and to 
explain several appearances that might otherwise expose it to 
objections. This is the relation which external objects may bear 
to our internal feelings, and the power they may consequently 
acquire of suggesting them, in consequence of a sort of resem- 
blance or analogy which they seem to have to their natural and 
appropriate objects. The language of poetry is founded, in a 
great degree, upon this analogy; and all language, indeed, is 
full of it, and attests, by its structure, both the extent to which 
it is spontaneously pursued, and the effects that are produced by 
its suggestion. 

2%. The great charm indeed, and the great secret, of poetical 
diction, consists in thus lending life and emotion to all the objects 
it embraces; and the enchanting beaut}^ which we sometimes rec- 
ognize in descriptions of very ordinary phenomena will be found to 
arise from the force of imagination, by which the poet has con- 
nected with human emotions a variety of objects to which com- 
mon minds could not discover such a relation. What the poet 
does for his readers, however, by his original similes and meta- 
phors, in these higher cases, even the dullest of those readers do, 
in some degree, every daj^, for themselves ; and the beauty which 
is perceived, when natural objects are unexpectedly vivified by 
the glowing fancy of the former, is precisely of the same kind 
that is felt when the closeness of the analogy enables them to 
force human feelings upon the recollection of all mankind. As 
the poet sees more of beauty in Nature than ordinary mortals, 
just because he perceives more of those analogies and relations to 
social emotion in which all beauty consists ; so other men see 
more or less of this beauty exactly as they happen to possess that 
fancy, or those habits, which enable them readily to trace out 
these relations. 

29. Poems, and other compositions in words, are beautiful in pro- 



THEORY OF BEAUTY. 13 

portion as they are conversant with beautiful objects, or as 
they suggest to us, in a more direct way, the moral and social 
emotions on which the beauty of all objects depends. Theorems 
and demonstrations, again, are beautiful according as they excite 
in us emotions of admiration for the genius and intellectual 
power of their inventors, and images of the magnificent and 
beneficial ends to which such discoveries may be applied ; and 
mechanical contrivances are beautiful when they remind us of 
similar talents and ingenuity, and at the same time impress us 
with a more direct sense of their vast utility to mankind, and of 
the great additional conveniences with which life is consequently 
adorned. In all cases, therefore, there is the suggestion of some 
interesting conception or emotion associated witli a present per- 
ception, in which it is apparently confounded and embodied; 
and this, according to the whole of tlie preceding deduction, is 
the distinguishing characteristic of beauty. 

CONCLUSIONS. 

30. In the first place, then, we conceive that this theory estab- 
lishes the substantial identity of the Sublime, the Beautiful, and 
the Picturesque ; and, consequently, puts an end to all controversy 
that is not purely verbal as to the difference of those several quali- 
ties. Every material object that interests us, without actually 
hurting or gratifying our bodily feelings, must do so, according to 
this theory, in one and the same manner; that is, by suggesting 
or recalling some emotion or affection of ourselves or some other 
sentient being, and presenting, to our imagination at least, some 
natural object of love, pity, admiration, or awe. The interest of 
material objects, therefore, is always the same, and arises in 
every case, not from any j^hysical qualities they may possess, but 
from their association with some idea of emotion. But, though 
material objects have but one means of exciting emotion, the 
emotions they do excite are infinite. They are mirrors that may 
reflect all shades and all colors ; and, in point of fact, do seldom 
reflect the same hues twice. ]N^o two interesting objects, perhaps 
— whether known by the name of Beautiful, Sublime, or Pictu- 
resque, — ever produced exactly the same emotion in the beholder ; 
and no one object, it is most probable, ever moved any two;per- 
sons to the very same conceptions. 

31. The only other advantage which we shall specify as likely 
to result from the general adoption of the theory we have been 
endeavoring to illustrate is, that it seems, calculated to put an end 
to all those perplexing and vexatious questions about the stand- 
ard of taste which have given occasion to so much impertinent 
and so much elaborate discussion. If things are not beautiful in 



14 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

themselves, but only as they serve to suggest interesting concep- 
tions to the mind, then every thing whicli does in point of fact 
suggest such a conception to any individual is beautiful to that 
individual ; and it is not only quite true that there is no room for 
disputing about tastes, but that all tastes are equally just and 
correct in so far as each individual speaks only of his own emo- 
tions. 

All tastes, then, are equally just and true in so far as concerns 
the individual whose taste is in question ; and what a man feels 
distinctly to be beautiful is beautiful to him, whatever other 
people may think of it. All this follows clearly from the theory 
now in question ; but it does not follow from it that all tastes are 
equally good or desirable, or that there is anj^ difficulty in de- 
scribing that which is reallj'" the best, and the most to be envied. 
The only use of the faculty of taste is to afford an innocent 
delight, and to assist in the cultivation of a finer morality ; and 
that man certainly will have the most delight from this faculty 
who has the most numerous and the most powerful perceptions 
of beauty. But if beauty consist in the reflection of our affec- 
tions and sympathies, it is plain that he will always see tlie most 
beauty whose affections are the warmest and most exercised, 
whose imagination is the most powerful, and who has most accus- 
tomed himself to attend to the objects by which he is surrounded. 
In so far as mere feeling and enjojauent are concerned, therefore, 
it seems evident that the best taste must be that which belongs 
to the best affections, the most active fancy, and the most atten- 
tive habits of observation. It will follow pretty exactly, too, that 
all men's perceptions of beauty will be nearly in proportion to 
the degree of their sensibility and social sympathies; and that 
those who have no affections towards sentient beings will be as 
certainly insensible to beauty in external objects as he who can 
not hear the sound of his friend's voice must be deaf to its 
echo. 

In so far as the sense of beauty is regarded as a mere source 
of enjoyment, this seems to be the only distinction that deserves 
to be attended to ; and the only cultivation that taste should ever 
receive, with a view to the gratification of the individual, should 
.be through the indirect cliannel of cultivating the affections, and 
pow,ers of observation. If we aspire, however, to be creators as 
well as observers of beautj^, and place any part of our happiness 
in ministering to the gratification of others, — as artists, or poets, 
or authors of any sort, — then, indeed, a new distinction of tastes, 
and a far more laborious system of cultivation, will be necessary. 
A man who pursues only his own d,elight will be as much 
charmed with objects that suggest powerful emotions in conse- 
quence of personal and accidental associations as with those that 



THEOKY OF BEAUTY. 15 

introduce similar emotions by means of associations that are 
universal and indestructible. To him, all objects of the former 
class are really as beautiful as those of the latter ; and, for his 
own gratification, the creation of that sort of beauty is just as 
important an occupation. But, if he conceive the ambition of 
creating beauties for the admiration of others, he must be cau- 
tious to employ only such objects as are the natural signs or the 
inseparable concomitants of emotions of which the greater part 
of mankind are susceptible ; and his taste will then deserve to be 
called bad and false if he obtrude upon the public, as beautiful, 
objects that are not likely to be associated in common minds with 
any interesting impressions. 

For a man himself, then, there is no taste that is either bad or 
false ; and the only difference worthy of being attended to is 
that between a great deal and a very little. Some, wdio have 
cold affections, sluggish imaginations, and no habits of observa- 
tion, can with difficulty discern beauty in any thing ; while oth- 
ers, who are full of kindness and sensibility, and who have been 
accustomed to attend to all the objects around them, feel it almost 
in every thing. It is no matter what other people may think of 
the objects of their admiration ; nor ought it to be any concern 
of theirs that tlie public would be astonished or offended if they 
were called upon to join in that admiration. So long as no such 
call is made, this anticipated discrepancy of feeling need give 
them no uneasiness ; and the suspicion of it should produce no 
contempt in any other persons. It is a strange aberration, indeed, 
of vanity, that makes us despise persons for being happy, for 
having sources of enjoyment in which we can not share ; and j^et 
this is the true source of the ridicule which is so generally poured 
upon individuals who seek only to enjoy their peculiar tastes 
unmolested. For, if there be any truth in the theory we have 
been expounding, no taste is bad for any other reason than 
because it is peculiar ; as the objects in which it delights must 
actually serve to suggest to the individual those common emotions 
and universal affections upon which the sense of beauty is every- 
where founded. 

Note. — [Whether he accept the foregoing views of Beauty or not, the critical 
study of them can not fail to improve the pupil. The same may be said of the next 
selection, — " The Philosophy of Style."] 



16 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 

Westminster Beview, 1852, 

1. Commenting on the seeming incongruity between Ms 
father's argumentative powers and his ignorance of formal logic, 
Tristram Shandy says, " It was a matter of just wonder with my 
worthy tutor, and two or three fellows of that learned society, that 
a man who knew not so much as the names of his tools should be 
able to work after that fashion with them." Sterne's intended 
implication, that a knowledge of the principles of reasoning nei- 
ther makes nor is essential to a good reasoner, is doubtless true. 
Thus, too, is it with grammar. As Dr. Latham, condemning the 
usual school-drill in Lindley Murra}^, rightly remarks, " Gross 
vulgarit}?- is a fault to be prevented ; but the proper prevention is 
to be got from habit, not rules:" similarly there can be little ques- 
tion that good composition is far less dependent upon acquaint- 
ance with its laws than upon practice and natural aptitude. A 
clear head, a quick imagination, and a sensitive ear, will go far 
towards making all rhetorical precepts needless. He who daily 
hears and reads well-framed sentences will naturally more or less 
tend to use similar ones. And where there exists any mental 
idiosyncrasy, — where there is a deficient verbal memory, or but 
little perception of order, or a lack of constructive ingenuity, — 
no amount of instruction will remedy the defect. Nevertheless, 
some practical result may be expected from a familiarity with the 
principles of style. The endeavor to conform to rules will tell, 
though slowly; and if in no other way, yet as facilitating re- 
vision, a knowledge of the thing to be achieved — a clear idea of 
what constitutes a beauty and what a blemish — can not fail to 
be of service. 

2. No general theory of expression seems jet to have been 
enunciated. The maxims contained in works on composition and 
rhetoric are presented in an unorganized form. Standing as 
isolated dogmas, as empirical generalizations, they are neither so 
clearly apprehended nor so much respected as they would be 
were they deduced from some simple first principle. We are told 
that " brevity is the soul of wit." We hear styles condemned as 
verbose or involved. Blair says that every needless part of a 
sentence " interrupts the description, and clogs the image ; " and 
again, that " long sentences fatigue the reader's attention." It 
is remarked by Lord Kaimes, that, "to give the utmost force 
to a period, it ought, if possible, to be closed with the word that 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 17 

makes the greatest figure." That parentheses should he avoided, 
and that Saxon words should be used in preference to those of 
Latin origin, are established precepts. But, however influential 
the truths thus dogmatically embodied, they would be much more 
influential if reduced to something like scientific ordination. In 
this, as in other cases, conviction will be greatly strengthened 
when we Understand the luhy. And we may be sure that a per- 
ception of the general principle of Avhich the rules of composi- 
tion are partial expressions will not only bring them home to us 
with greater force, but will discover to us other rules of like 
origin. 

3. On seeking for some clew to the law underlying these current 
maxims, we may see shadowed forth in many of them the impor- 
tance of economizing the reader's or hearer's attention. To so 
present ideas that they may be apprehended with the least pos- 
sible mental effort is the desideratum towards which most of the 
rules above quoted point. When we condemn writing that is 
wordy or confused or intricate ; when we praise this style as easy, 
and blame that as fatiguing, — we consciously or unconsciously 
assume this desideratum as our standard of judgment. Regard- 
ing language as an apparatus of symbols for the conveyance of 
thought, we may say, that, as in a mechanical apparatus, the 
more simple and the better arranged its parts, the greater Avill be 
the effect produced. In either case, whatever force is absorbed 
by the machine is deducted from the result. A reader or listener 
has at each moment but a limited amount of mental power avail- 
able. To recognize and interpret the symbols presented to him 
requires part of this power; to arrange and combine the images 
suggested requires a further part; and only that part which 
remains can be used for the realization of the thought conveyed. 
Hence the more time and attention it takes to receive and under- 
stand each sentence, the less time and attention can be given to the 
contained idea, and the less vividly will that idea be conceived. 

4. How truly language must be regarded as a hindrance to 
thought, though the necessary instrument of it, we shall clearly 
perceive on remembering the comparative force with which simple 
ideas are communicated by mimetic signs. To say " Leave the 
room'' is less expressive than to point to the door. Placing a 
finger on the lips is more forcible than whispering, " Do not 
speak." A beck of the hand is better than " Come here." No 
phrase can convey the idea of surprise so vividly as opening the 
eyes and raising the eyebrows. A shrug of the shoulders would 
lose much by translation into words. Again : it may be re- 
marked, that, wlien oral language is emploj^ed, the strongest 
effects are produced by interjections, which condense entire sen- 
tences into syllables. And in other cases, where custom allows 

2 



18 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

us to express thoughts by single words, as in " beware," 
"heigho," "fudge," much force would be lost by expanding 
them into specific verbal propositions. Hence, carrying out the 
metaphor that language is the vehicle of thought, there seems 
reason to think, that, in all cases, the friction and inertia of the 
vehicle deduct from its efficiency ; and that, in composition, the 
chief if not the sole thing to be done is to reduce this friction 
and inertia to the smallest possible amount. Let us, then, in- 
quire whether economy of the recipient's attention is not the 
secret of effect, alike in the right choice and collocation of words, 
in the best arrangement of clauses in a sentence, in the proper 
order of its principal and subordinate propositions, in the judi- 
cious use of simile, metaphor, and other figures of speech, and 
even in the rhythmical sequence of syllables. 

CHOICE OF WORDS. 

5. The superior forcibleness of Saxon English, or rather non- 
Latin English, first claims our attention. The several special rea- 
sons assignable for this may all be reduced to the general reason, 
— Economy. The most important of them is early association. 
A child's vocabulary is almost wholly Saxon. He says, " I have," 
not "I possess; " " I wish," not " I desire : " he does not " reflect," 
he " thinks ; " he does not beg for " amusement," but for " play ; " 
he calls things "nice "or " nasty," not "pleasant" or "disagree- 
able." The synonyms which he learns in after-years never become 
so closely, so organically connected with the ideas signified as do 
these original words used in childhood; and hence the association 
remains less powerful. But in what does a powerful association 
between a word and an idea differ from a weak one ? Simplj^ in 
the greater ease and rapiditj?- of the suggestive action. It can 
be in nothing else. Both of two words, if they be strictly 
synonymous, eventually call up the same image. The expres- 
sion, " It is acid" must, in the end, give rise to the same thought 
as " It is sour ; " but because the term " acid " was learnt later 
in life, and has not been so often followed by the thought 
symbolized, it does not so readily arouse that thought as the 
term " sour." If we remember how slowly and with what labor 
the appropriate ideas follow unfamiliar words in another lan- 
guage, and how increasing familiarity with such words brings 
greater rapidity and ease of comprehension, until, from its hav- 
ing been a conscious effort to realize their meanings, their 
meanings ultimately come without any effort at all ; and if we 
consider that the same process must have gone on with the words 
of our mother-tongue from childhood upwards, — we shall clearly 
see that the earliest learnt and oftenest used words will, other 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 19 

tilings equal, call up images with less loss of time and energy 
than their later learnt synonyms. 

6. The farther superiority possessed by Saxon English in its 
comparative brevity obviously comes under the same generaliza- 
tion. If it be an advantage to express an idea in the smallest num- 
ber of words, then will it be an advantage to express it in the 
smallest number of syllables. If circuitous phrases and needless 
expletives distract the attention, and diminish the strength of the 
impression produced, then do surplus articulations do so. A certain 
effort, though commonly an inappreciable one, must be required 
to recognize every vowel and consonant. If, as we so commonly 
find, the mind soon becomes fatigued when we listen to an indis- 
tinct or far-removed speaker, or when we read a badly- written 
manuscript ; and if, as we can not doubt, the fatigue is a cumula- 
tive result of the attention required to catch successive syllables, 
— it obviously follows that attention is in such cases absorbed by 
each syllable. And, if this be true when the syllables are difficult 
of recognition, it will also be true, though in a less degree, when 
the recognition of them is easy. Hence the shortness of Saxon 
words becomes a reason for their greater force, as involving a 
saving of the articulations to be received. 

7. Again : that frequent cause of strength in Saxon and other 
primitive words — their imitative character — may be similarly 
resolved into the more general cause. Both those directly imita- 
tive, as splash, bang, whiz, roar, &c., and those analogically imi- 
tative, as rough, smooth, keen, blunt, thin, hard, crag, &c., by 
presenting to the perceptions symbols having direct resemblance 
to the things to be imagined, or some kinship to them, save part 
of the eifort needed to call uj) the intended ideas, and leave more 
attention for the ideas themselves. 

8. The economy of the recipient's mental energy into which we 
thus find the several causes of the strength of Saxon English 
resolvable may equally be traced in the superiority of specific 
over generic words. That concrete terms produce more vivid im- 
pressions than abstract ones, and should, when possible, be used 
instead, is a current maxim of composition. As Dr. Campbell 
says, "The more general the terms are, the picture is the fainter: 
the more special they are, the brighter." 

We should avoid such a sentence as, — 

" In proportion as the manners, customs, and amusements of a 
nation are cruel and barbarous, the regulations of their penal 
code will be severe." 

And in place of it we should write, — 

"In proportion as men delight in battles, tourneys, bull-fights, 
and combats of gladiators, will they punish by hanging, behead- 
ing, burning, and the rack." 



20 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

This superiority of specific expressions is clearly due to a 
saving of the effort required to translate words into thoughts. 
As we do not think in generals, but in particulars ; as, whenever 
any class of things is referred to, we represent it to ourselves by 
calling to mind individual members of it, — it follows, that, when 
an abstract word is used, the hearer or reader has to choose, from 
among his stock of images, one or more by which he may figure 
to himself the genus mentioned. In doing this, some delay must 
arise, some force be expended; and if, by employing a specific' 
term, an appropriate image can be at once suggested, an economy 
is achieved, and a more vivid impression produced. 

COLLOCATION OF WORDS. 

9. Turning now from the choice of words to their sequence, we 
shall find the same general principle hold good. We have, a 
2:)riori, reason for believing that there is usually some one order 
of words in a sentence more effective than every other, and that 
this order is the one which presents the elements of the proposi- 
tion in the succession in which they may be most readily put 
together. As, in a narrative, the events should be stated in such 
sequence that the mind may not have to go backwards and for- 
wards in order to rightly connect them ; as, in a group of sen- 
tences, the arrangement adopted should be such that each of them 
may be understood as it comes, without waiting for subsequent 
ones : so, in every sentence, the sequence of words should be 
tliat which suggests the component parts of the thought conveyed, 
in the order most convenient for the building up that thought. 
To duly enforce this truth, and to prepare the way for applica- 
tions of it, we must briefly inquire into the mental process by 
which the meaning of a series of words is apprehended. 

10. We can not more simply do this than by considering the 
proper collocation of the substantive and adjective. Is it better to 
place the adjective before the substantive, or the substantive before 
the adjective ? Ought we to say, with the French, " Un cheval 
noir " ? or to say, as we do, " A black horse " ? Probably most per-' 
sons of culture would decide that one order is as good as the other. 
Alive to the bias produced by habit, t\\ej would ascribe to that 
the preference they feel for our own form of expression. They 
would suspect those educated in the use of the opposite form of 
having an equal preference for that. And thus they would con- 
clude that neither of these instinctive judgments is of anj^- worth. 
There is, however, a philosophical ground for deciding in favor of 
the English custom. If '' a horse black " be the arrangement 
used, immediately on the utterance of the word "horse," there 
arises, or tends to arise, in the mind, a picture answering to that 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 21 

word; and, as there has been nothing to indicate what kind of 
horse, any image of a horse suggests itself Very likely, how- 
ever, the image will be tliat of a brown horse ; brown horses 
being equally or more familiar. The result is, that, when the 
word " black " is added, a check is given to the process of thought. 
Either the picture of a brown horse already present in the imagi- 
nation has to be suppressed, and the picture of a black one 
summoned in its place ; or else, if the picture of a brown horse 
be yet unformed, the tendency to form it has to be stoj^ped. 
AYhichever be the case, a certain amount of hindrance results. 
But if, on the other hand, " a black horse " be the expression 
used, no such mistake can be made. The w^ord " black," 
indicating an abstract quality, arouses no definite idea. It 
simply 25repares the mind for conceiving some object of that 
color ; and the attention is kept suspended until that object is 
known. If, then, by the precedence of the adjective, the idea is 
conveyed without the possibility of error, whereas the precedence 
of the substantive is liable to produce a misconception, it follows 
tliat the one gives the mind less trouble than the other, and is, 
therefore, more forcible. 

11. Possibly it will be objected that the adjective and substantive 
come so close together, that, practically, the}^ may be considered 
as uttered at the same moment ; and that, on hearing the phrase, 
" A horse black," there is not time to imagine a wrongly-colored 
horse before the Tvord " black " follows to prevent it. It must be 
owned that it is not easy to decide by introspection whether this 
be so or not. But there are facts collaterally implying that it is 
not. Our ability to anticipate the words yet unspoken is one of 
them. If the ideas of the hearer kept considerably behind the 
expressions of the speaker, as the objection assumes, he could 
hardly foresee the end of a sentence by the time it was half de- 
livered ; 3^et this constantly happens. Were the supposition true, 
the mincl, instead of anticipating, would be continually falling 
more and more in arrear. If the meanings of words are not 
realized as fast as the words are uttered, then the loss of time 
over each word must entail such an accumulation of delays as to 
leave a hearer entirely behind. But, whether the force of these 
replies be or be not admitted, it will scarcely be denied that the 
right formation of a picture will be facilitated by presenting its 
elements in the order in which they are wanted ; and that, as in 
ft)rming the image answering to a red flower the notion of red- 
ness is one of the components that must be used in the construc- 
tion of the image, the mind, if put in possession of this notion 
before the specific image to be formed out of it is suggested, will 
more easil}^ form it than if the order be reversed, even though it 
should do nothing until it has received both symbols. 



22 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

What is here said respecting the succession of the adjective 
and substantive is obviously applicable, by change of terms, to 
the adverb and verb. And, without further explanation, it will 
be at once j)erceived, that, in the use of prepositions and other 
particles, most languages spontaneously conform, with more or less 
completeness, to this law. 

ARRANGEMENT OF CLAUSES. 

12. On ajDplying a like analysis to the larger divisions of a 
sentence, we find not only that the same principle holds good, 
but that the advantage respecting it becomes marked. In the 
arrangement of predicate and subject, for example, we are at once 
shown, that, as the predicate determines the asjoect under which 
the subject is to be conceived, it should be placed first ; and the 
striking effect produced by so placing it becomes comprehensible. 
Take the often-quoted contrast between " Great is Diana of the 
Ephesians " and " Diana of the Ephesians is great." When the 
first arrangement is used, the utterance of the word " great " 
arouses those vague associations of an impressive nature with 
which it has been habitually connected ; the imagination is pre- 
pared to clothe with high attributes whatever follows : and when 
the words, "Diana of the Ephesians," are heard, all the appro- 
priate imagery which can on the instant be summoned is used in 
the formation of the picture ; the mind being thus led directlj^, 
and without error, to the intended impression. When, on the 
contrary, the reverse order is followed, the idea, "Diana of the 
Ephesians," is conceived in any ordinary way, with no special 
reference to greatness ; and, when the words " is great " are added, 
the conception has to be entirely remodeled : whence arises a 
manifest loss of mental energy, and a corresponding diminution 
of effect. The following verse from Coleridge's " Ancient Mari- 
ner," though somewhat irregular in structure, well illustrates the 
same truth: — , ^^ , „ „ , 

" Alone^ alone, all, au alone, 
Alone on a wide, ivide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony." 

13. Of course, the principle equally applies when the predicate is 
a verb or a participle. And as effect is gained by placing first all 
words indicating the quality, conduct, or condition of the subject, 
it follows that the copula also should have precedence. It is 
true, that the general habit of our language resists this arrange- 
ment of predicate, copula, and subject; but we may readily find 
instances of the additional force gained by conforming to it. 
Thus in the line from " Julius Csesar," — 

" Then hurst this mighty heart," — 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 23 

priority is given to a word embodying botli predicate and copula. 
In a passage contained in "The Battle of Flodden Field," the 
like order is systematically employed with great effect : — 

*' The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
'J. Home ! a Gordon ! ' loas the cry; 

Loud were the clanging blows: 
Advanced^ forced bach, now low, now high., 

The pennon sunk and rose. 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It wavered 'mid "the foes." 

14. Pursuing the principle yet further, it is obvious, that, for 
producing the greatest effect, not only should the main divisions 
of a sentence observe this sequence, but the subdivisions of these 
should be similarly arranged. In nearly all cases, the predicate 
is accompanied by some limit or qualification, called its comple- 
ment : commonly, also, the circumstances of the subject which 
form its complement have to be specified ; and, as these qualifi- 
cations and circumstances must determine the mode in which the 
ideas they belong to shall be conceived, precedence should be 
given to them. Lord Kaimes notices the fact, that this order is 
preferable, though without giving the reason. He says, " When 
a circumstance is placed at the beginning of the period, or near 
the beginning, the transition from it to the principal subject is 
agreeable, — is like ascending or going upwards." A sentence 
arranged in illustration of this may be desirable. Perhaps the 
following will serve : — 

" Whatever it may be in theory, it is clear, that, in practice, 
the French idea of liberty is, — the right of every man to be 
master of the rest." 

In this case, were the first two clauses, up to the word 
" practice " inclusive, which qualify the subject, to be placed at 
the end instead of the beginning, much of the force would be lost ; 
as thus : — 

" The French idea of liberty is, — the right of every man to be 
master of the rest, in practice at least, if not in theory." 

The effect of giving priority to the complement of the predi- 
cate, as well as the predicate itself, is finely displayed in the 
opening of " Hyperion : " — 

" Deep in the shady sadness of a vale, 
Far-sunJcen from the healthy breaih of morn, 
Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star, 
Sat gray-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone." 

Here it will be observed, not only that the predicate " sat " pre- 
cedes the subject "Saturn," and that the three lines in Italics, 



24 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

constituting the complement of tlie predicate, come before it, but 
tliat, in the structure of that complement also, the same order is 
followed ; each line being so arranged that the qualifying words 
are placed before the v,rords suggesting concrete images. 

SUCCESSION OF PROPOSITIONS. 

15. The right succession of the principal and subordinate prop- 
ositions in a sentence will manifestly be regulated by the same law. 
Regard for economy of the recipient's attention, which, as we 
find, determines the best order for the subject, copula, predicate, 
and their complements, dictates that the subordinate proposition 
shall precede the principal one when the sentence includes two. 
Containing, as the subordinate proposition does, some qualifying 
or explanatory idea, its priority must clearly prevent misconcep- 
tion of the principal one, and must therefore save the mental 
eftbrt needed to correct such misconception. This will be clearly 
seen in the annexed example : — 

" Those who weekly go to church, and there have doled out to 
them a quantum of belief which they have not energy to work out 
for themselves, are simply spiritual paupers." 

The subordinate proposition, or rather the two subordinate 
propositions, contained between the first and second commas in 
this sentence, almost wholly determine the meaning of the 
principal proposition with which it ends ; and the efiect would be 
destroyed were they placed last instead of first. 

16. The general principle of right arrangement in sentences, 
which we have traced in its application to the leading divisions of 
them, equally determines the normal order of their minor divisions. 
The several clauses of which the complements to the subject and 
predicate generally consist may conform more or less completely 
to the law of easy apprehension. Of course, with these, as with 
the larger members, the succession should be from the abstract to 
the concrete. 

Now, however, we must notice a further condition to be ful- 
filled in the proper combination of the elements of a sentence, 
but still a condition dictated by the same general principle with 
the other ; the condition, namely, that the words and expressions 
most nearly related in thought shall be brought the closest 
together. Evidently the single words, the minor clauses, and the 
leading divisions, of every proposition, severally qualify each 
other. The longer the time that elapses between the mention of 
any qualifying member and the member qualified, the longer 
must the mind be exerted in carrying forward the qualifying 
member ready for use; and, the more numerous the qualifica- 
tions to be simultaneously remembered and rightly applied, the 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 25 

greater will be the mental power expended, and the smaller the 
effect produced. Hence, other things equal, force will be gained 
by so arranging the members of a sentence that these suspensions 
shall at any moment be the fewest in number, and shall also be 
of the shortest duration. The following is an instance of defec- 
tive combination : — 

" A modern newspaper-statement, though probably true, would 
be laughed at if quoted in a book as testimony ; but the letter of 
a court-gossip is thought good historical evidence, if written some 
centuries ago." 

A re-arrangement of this, in accordance with the principle 
indicated above, will be found to increase the effect. Thus : — 

" Though probably true, a modern newspaper-statement quoted 
in a book as testimony would be laughed at ; but the letter of a 
court-gossip, if written some centuries ago, is thought good 
historical evidence." 

By making this change, some of the suspensions are avoided, 
and others shortened; whilst there is less liability to produce 
premature conceptions. The passage quoted below from " Para- 
dise Lost" affords a fine instance of sentences well arranged, 
alike in the priority of the subordinate members, in the avoidance 
of long and numerous suspensions, and in the correspondence 
between the order of the clauses and the sequence of the phe- 
nomena described; which, by the way, is a further prerequisite to 
easy comprehension, and therefore to effect : — 

" As when a prow]ing wolf, 
Whom hunger drives to seek new haunt for pi'ey, 
Watching where sliepherds pen their flocks at eve 
In hurdled cotes amid the field secui'e, 
Leaps o'er the fence with ease into the fold; 
Or as a thief bent to unhoard the cash 
Of some rich burgher, whose substantial doors, 
Cross-barred and bolted fast, fear no assault. 
In at the window climbs, or o'er the tiles: 
So clomb the fii'st grand thief into God's fold; 
So since into his Church lewd hirelings climb." 

17. The habitual use of sentences in which all or most of the 
descriptive and limiting elements precede those described and 
limited gives rise to what is called the inverted style, — a title 
which is, however, by no means confined to this structure, but is 
often used where the order of the words is simply unusual. A 
more appropriate title would be the " direct style : " as contrasted 
with the other, or "indirect style:" the peculiarity of the one 
being, that it conveys each thought into the mind step b}^ step, 
with little liability to error ; and of the other, that it gets the right 
thought conceived by a series of approximations. 

18. The superiority of the direct over the indirect form of sen- 



26 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

tence, implied by the several conclusions that have been drawn, 
must not, however, be affirmed without limitation. Though up to 
a certain point it is well for all the qualifying clauses of a period to 
precede those qualified, yet, as carrying forward each qualifying 
clause costs some mental effort, it follows, that, when the number 
of them and the time they are carried become great, we reach a 
limit beyond which more is lost than is gained. Other things 
equal, the arrangement should be such, that no concrete image 
shall be suggested until the materials out of which it is to be 
made have been presented. And yet, as lately pointed out, other 
things equal, the fewer the materials to be held at once, and the 
shorter the distance they have to be borne, the better. Hence in 
some cases it becomes a question, whether most mental effort will 
be entailed by the many and long suspensions, or by the correction 
of successive misconceptions. 

19. This question may sometimes be decided by considering the 
capacity of the persons addressed. A greater grasp of mind is 
required for the ready comprehension of thoughts expressed in 
the direct manner, where the sentences are anywise intricate. 
To recollect a number of preliminaries stated in elucidation of a 
coming image, and to apply them all to the formation of it when 
suggested, demands a considerable power of concentration, and a 
tolerably vigorous imagination. To one possessing these, the 
direct method will mostly seem the best; whilst to one deficient 
in them it will seem the worst. Just as it may cost a strong man 
less effort to carry a hundred-weight from place to place at once 
than by a stone at a time ; so to an active mind it may be easier 
to bear along all the qualifications of an idea, and at once rightly 
form it when named, than to first imperfectly conceive such idea, 
and then carry back to it, one by one, the details and limitations 
afterwards mentioned. Whilst, converselj^, as for a boy the only 
possible mode of transferring a hundred- weight is that of taking 
it in portions ; so, for a weak mind, the only possible mode of 
forming a compound concej^tion may be that of building it up by 
carrying separately its several parts. 

20. That the indirect method — the method of conveying the 
meaning by a series of approximations — is best fitted for the 
uncultivated, may indeed be inferred from their habitual use 
of it. The form of expression adopted by the savage, as in 
"Water — give me," is the simplest tj^pe of the approximative 
arrangement. In pleonasms, which are comparatively prevalent 
among the uneducated, the same essential structure is seen ; as, 
for instance, in "The men, they were there." Again: the old 
possessive case, "The king, his crown," conforms to the like order 
of thought. Moreover, the fact that the indirect mode is called 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 27 

the natural one implies that it is the one spontaneously employed 
by the common people ; that is, the one easiest for undisciplined 
minds. 

21. Before dismissing this branch of our subject, it should be 
remarked, that, even when addressing the most vigorous intellects, 
the direct style is unfit for communicating thoughts of a complex 
or abstract character. So long as the mind has not much to do, 
it may be well able to grasp all the preparatory clauses of a sen- 
tence, and to use them effectively ; but if some subtlety in the 
argument absorb the attention, if every faculty" be strained in 
endeavoring to catch the speaker's or writer's drift, it may hap- 
pen that the mind, unable to carry on both processes at once, 
will break down, and allow all its ideas to lapse into confusion. 

FIGURES OF SPEECH. 

22. Turning now to consider figures of speech, we may equally 
discern the same general law of effect. Underlying all the rules 
that may be given for the choice and right use of them, we shall 
find the same fundamental requirement, — economy of attention. 
It is indeed chiefly because of their great ability to subserve this 
requirement that figures of speech are employed. To bring the 
mind more easily to the desired conception, is in many cases 
solely, and in all cases mainl}^, their object. 

23. Let us begin with the figure called Synecdoche. The ad- 
vantage sometimes gained by putting a part for the whole is due 
to the more convenient or more accurate presentation of the idea 
thus secured. If, instead of saying, " A fleet of ten ships," we 
say, " A fleet of ten sai7," the picture of a group of vessels at sea 
is more readily suggested, and is so because tlie sails constitute 
the most conspicuous part of vessels so circumstanced ; whereas 
the word " ships " would very likely remind us of vessels in dock. 
Again, to say, " All hands to the pumps ! " is better than to say, 
" All men to the pumps ! " as it suggests the men in the special 
attitude intended, and so saves effort. Bringing ^' gray hairs 
with sorrow to the grave" is another expression, the effect of 
which has the same cause. 

24. The occasional increase of force produced by Metonymy may 
be similarly accounted for. "The low morality of the bar" is a 
phrase both briefer and more significant than the literal one it 
stands for. A belief in the ultimate supremacy of intelligence 
over brute force is conveyed in a more concrete, and therefore 
more realizable form, if we substitute " the pen " and " the 
sword" for the two abstract terms. To say, "Beware of drink- 
ing!" is less effective than to say "Beware the bottle/'^ and is 
so, clearly, because it calls up a less specific image. 



28 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

25. The Simile, though in many cases employed chiefl}'- with a 
view to ornament, yet, whenever it increases the force of a pas- 
sage, does so by being an economy. Here is an instance : — 

" The illusion, that great men and great events came oftener in 
early times than now, is partly due to historical perspective. As, 
in a range of equidistant columns, the farthest off look the 
closest, so the conspicuous objects of the past seem more thickly 
clustered the more remote they are." 

To construct, by a process of literal explanation, the thought 
thus conveyed, would take many sentences; and the first ele- 
ments of the picture would become faint whilst the imagination 
was busy in adding the others. But, by the help of a compari- 
son, all effort is saved : the picture is instantly realized, and its 
full efi'ect produced. 

2^. Of the position of the Simile,* it needs only to remark, that 
what has been said respecting the order of the adjective and sub- 
stantive, predicate and subject, principal and subordinate proposi- 
tions, &c., is applicable here. As whatever qualifies should 
precede whatever is qualified, force will generally be gained by 
placing the simile before the object to which it is applied. That 
this arrangement is the best, may be seen in the following pas- 
sage from " The Lady of the Lake : " — 

" As wreath of snow, on mountain breast, 
Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 
Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 
And at the monarch's feet she lay." 

Inverting these couplets will be found to diminish the effect con- 
siderably. There are cases, however, even where the simile is a 
simple one, in which it may with advantage be placed last; as in 
these lines from Alexander Smith's " Life Drama : " — 

" I see the future stretch 
• All dark and barren as a rainy sea." 

The reason for this seems to be, that so abstract an idea as 
that attaching to the "future" does not present itself to the 
mind in any definite form ; and hence the subsequent arrival at 
the simile entails no reconstruction of the thought. 

27. Nor are such the only cases in which this order is the most 
forcible. As the advantage of putting the simile before the 
object depends on its being carried forward in the mind to assist 
in forming an image of the object, it must happen, that if, from 
length or complexity, it can not be so carried forward, the advan- 

* Properly the term " simile " is applicable only to the entire figure, inclusive of the 
two things compared and the comparison drawn between them. But, as there exists no 
name for the illustrative member of the figure, there seems no alternative but to 
employ "simile" to express this also. The context will in each case show in which 
sense the word is used. 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 29 

tage is not gained. The annexed sonnet by Coleridge is defec- 
tive from this cause : — 

" As Avhen a child, on some long Avintei-'s night, 
Affrighted, clinging to its grandiun's knees 
With eager wondering and perturbed delight 
Listens strange tales of fearl'ul, dark decrees, 
Muttered to wretch by necromantic spell; 
Or of those hags who at tlie witching time 
Of murky midnight ride the air sublime, 
And mingle foul embrace with fiends of hell; 
Cold hoiTor drinks its blood ! anon the tear 
More gentle starts to hear the beldam tell 
Of pretty babes that loved each other dear. 
Murdered by cruel uncle's mandate fell: 
Even such the shivering joj's thy tones impart; 
Even so, thou, Siddons, meltest rny sad heart." 

Here, from the lapse of time and accumulation of circum- 
stances, the first part of the comparison becomes more or less dim 
before its application is reached, and requires re-reading. Had 
the main idea been first mentioned, less ettbrt would have been 
required to retain it, and to modif}^ the conception of it in con- 
formity with the comparison, than to retain the comparison, and 
refer back to the recollection of its successive features for help in 
forming the final image. 

28. The superiority of the Metaphor to the Simile is ascribed by 
Dr. Whately to the fact that " all men are more gratified at 
catching the resemblance for themselves than in having it 
pointed out to them." But, after what has been said, the great 
economy it achieves will seem the more probable cause. If, 
drawing an analogy between mental and physical j)henomeDa, we 
say, " As, in passing through the crystal, beams of white light 
are decomposed into the colors of the rainbow ; so, in traversing 
the soul of the poet, the colorless rays of truth are transformed 
into briglitly-tinted poetry," it is clear, that, in receiving the 
double set of words expressing the two portions of the compari- 
son, and in carrying the one portion to the other, a considerable 
amount of attention is absorbed. Most of this is saved, however, 
by putting the comparison in a metaphorical form, thus: — 

" The white light of truth, in traversing the many-sided, 
transparent soul of the poet, is refracted into iris-liued poetry." 

29. How much is conveyed in a few words by the help of the 
Metaphor, and how vivid the eftect consequently produced, may 
be abundantly exemplified. From "A Life Drama" may be 
quoted the phrase, — 

" I speared him with a jest," 

as a fine instance among the many which that poem contains. 
A passage in the "Prometheus Unbound" of Shelley displays 
the power of the Metaphor to great advantage : — 



30 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Methought among the lawns together 
We wandered, underneath the yonng gray dawn, 
And multitudes of dense, white, fleecy clouds 
. Were wandering in thick flocks along the mountains, 
Shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind." 

This last expression is remarkable for the distinctness with 
which it realizes the features of the scene ; bringing the mind, 
as it were, by a bound, to the desired conception. 

30. But a limit is put to the advantageous use of the Metaphor 
by the condition that it must be sufficiently simple to be under- 
stood from a hint. Evidently, if there be any obscurity in the 
meaning or application of it, no economy of attention will be 
gained, but rather the reverse. Hence, when the comparison is 
complex, it is usual to have recourse to the Simile. There is, 
however, a species of figure, sometimes classed under Allegory, 
but which, perhaps, might be better called Compound Metaphor, 
that enables us to retain the brevity of the metaphorical form 
even where the analogy is intricate. This is done by indicating 
the application of the figure at the outset, and then leaving the 
mind to continue the parallel itself. Emerson has employed it 
with great effect in the first of his " Lectures on the Times : " — 

" The main interest which any aspects of the times can have 
for us is the great spirit which- gazes through them ; the light 
which they can shed on the wonderful questions, What are we ? 
and Whither do we tend ? We do not wish to be deceived. 
Here we drift, like white sail across the wild ocean, now bright 
on the wave, now darkling in the trough of the sea. But from 
what port did we sail? Who knows? Or to what port are we 
bound ? W^ho knows ? There is no one to tell us but such poor 
weather-tossed mariners as ourselves, whom we speak as we pass, 
or who have hoisted some signal, or floated to us some letter in a 
bottle from afar. But what know they more than we ? Tliey 
also found themselves on this wondrous sea. No : from the older 
sailors nothing. Over all their speaking-trumpets the gray sea 
and the loud winds answer, ' Not in us ; not in Time.' " 

31. The division of the Simile from the Metaphor is by no 
means a definite one. Between the one extreme in which the two 
elements of the comparison are detailed at full length and the 
analogy pointed out, and the other extreme in which the com- 
parison is implied instead of stated, come intermediate forms, in 
which the comparison is partly stated and partly implied. For 
instance : — 

" Astonished at the performance of the English plow, the Hin- 
doos paint it, set it up, and worshijD it ; thus turning a tool into 
an idol : linguists do the same with language." 

There is an evident advantage in leaving the reader or hearer 
to complete the figure ; and generally these intermediate forms 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 31 

are good in proportion as tliey do tliis; provided tlie mode of 
completing it be obvious. 

32. Passing over much that may be said of like purport upon 
Hyperbole, Personification, Apostrophe, &c., let us close our remarks 
upon construction by a typical example. The general principle 
that has been enunciated is, that the force of all verbal forms 
and arrangements is great in proportion as the time and mental 
effort they demand from the recipient is small. The special ap- 
plications of this general principle have been severally illus- 
trated ; and it has been shown that the relative goodness of any 
two modes of expressing an idea may be determined by observ- 
ing which requires the shortest process of thought for its compre- 
hension. But, though conformity in particular points has been 
exemplified, no cases of complete conformity have yet been 
quoted. It is indeed dif&cult to find them ; for the English 
idiom scarcely permits the order which theory dictates. A few, 
however, occur in Ossian. Here is one : — - 

"As autumn's dark storms pour from two echoing hills, so 
towards each other approached the heroes. As two dark streams 
from high rocks meet and mix, and roar on the plain ; loud, 
rough, and dark in battle meet Lochlin and Inisfail. ... As 
the troubled noise of the ocean when roll the waves on high, as 
the last peal of the thunder of heaven ; such is the noise of the 
battle." 

Except in the position of the verb in the first two similes, the 
theoretically best arrangement is fully carried out in each of 
these sentences. The simile comes before the qualified image, 
the adjectives before the substantives, the predicate and copula 
before the subject, and their respective complements before them. 
That the passage is more or less open to the charge of being 
bombastic proves nothing, or, rather, proves our case ;* for what 
is bombast but a force of expression too great for the magnitude 
of the ideas embodied ? All that may rightly be inferred is, that 
only in very rare cases, and then only to produce a climax, 
should all the conditions of effective expression be fulfilled. 

33. Passing on to a more complex application of the doctrine 
with which we set out, it must now be remarked, that not only in 
the structure of sentences, and the use of figures of speech, may 
economy of the recipient's mental energy be assigned as the 
cause of force, but that, in the choice and arrangement of the 
minor images out of which some large thought is to be built, we 
ifiay trace the same condition of eifect. To select from the sen- 
timent, scene, or event described, those typical elements which 
carry many others along with them, and so, by saying a few 
things, but suggesting many, to abridge the description, is the 
secret of producing a vivid impression. Thus if we say, " Real 



32 ENGLISH LITERATFBE. 

nobility is 'not transferable/ ^' besides the one idea expressed, 
several are implied ; and, as these can be thought much sooner 
than they can be put in words, there is gain in omitting them. 
How the mind may be led to construct a complete picture by the 
presentation of a few parts, an extract from Tennyson's " Mari- 
ana '^ will show : — 

" All day, within the dreamy house, 
The door upon the hinges creaked ; 
The blue fly sung i' the pane ; the mouse 
Behind the moldering wainscot shrieked, 
Or from the crevice peered about." 

The several circumstances here specified bring with them hosts 
of appropriate associations. Our attention is rarely drawn by 
the buzzing of a fly in the window, save when every thing is still. 
Whilst the inmates are moving about the house, mice usually 
keep silence ; and it is only when extreme quietness reigns that 
they peep from their retreats. Hence each of the facts men- 
tioned, presupposing numerous others, calls up these with more or 
less distinctness, and revives the feeling of dull solitude with 
which they are connected in our experience. Were all these 
facts detailed instead of suggested, the attention would be so 
frittered away, that little impression of dreariness would be pro- 
duced. And here, without further explanation, it will be seen, 
that, be the nature of the sentiment convej^ed what it may, tliis 
skillful selection of a few particulars which imply the rest is the 
key to success. In the choice of component ideas, as in the 
choice of expressions, the aim must be to convey the greatest 
quantity of thoughts with the smallest quantity of words. 

34. Before inquiring whether tlie law of effect, thus far traced, 
will account for the superiority of poetry to prose, it will be need- 
ful to notice some supplementary causes of force in expression 
that have not yet been mentioned. These are not, properly 
speaking, additional causes, but rather secondary ones, origi- 
nating from those already specified, — reflex manifestations of 
them. In the first place, then, we may remark, tliat mental ex- 
citement spontaneously prompts the use of those forms of speech 
which have been pointed out as the most effective. " Out with 
him ! " " Away witli him ! " are the natural utterances of angry 
citizens at a disturbed meeting. A voyager, describing a terrible 
storm he had witnessed, would rise to some such climax as, 
" Crack went the ropes, and down came the mast!" Astonish- 
ment maybe heard expressed in the phrase, "Never was there 
such a sight ! " All of which sentences are, it will be observed, 
constructed after the direct type. Again : every one will recog- 
nize the fact that excited persons are given to figures of speech. 
The vituperation of the vulgar abounds with them ; often, in- 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 33 

deed, consists of little else. " Beast," " brute," " gallows-rogue," 
" cut-throat villain," — these, and other like metaphors and meta- 
phorical epithets, at once call to mind a street-quarrel. Further : 
it may be remarked that extreme brevity is one of the character- 
istics of passionate language. The sentences are generally in- 
complete ; the particles are omitted ; and frequently important 
words are left to be gathered from the context. Great admira- 
tion does not vent itself in a precise proposition, as " It is beauti- 
ful," but in a simple exclamation, "Beautiful!" He who, when 
reading a lawyer's letter, sliould say, " Vile rascal ! " would be 
thought angry ; whilst " He is a vile rascal " would imply com- 
parative coolness. Thus we see, that, alike in the order of the 
words, in the frequent use of figures, and in extreme conciseness, 
the natural utterances of excitement conform to the theoretical 
conditions of forcible expression. 

35. Hence, then, the higher forms of speech acquire a secondary 
strength from association. Having, in actual life, habitually 
found them in connection with vivid mental impressions, and 
having been accustomed to meet with them in the most powerful 
writing, they come to have in themselves a species of force. The 
emotions that have from time to time been produced by the 
strong thoughts wrapped up in these forms are partially aroused 
by the forms themselves. They create a certain degree of ani- 
mation; they induce a preparatory sympathy; and, when the 
striking ideas looked for are reached, they are the more vividly 
realized. 

POETRY. 

36. The continuous use of those modes of expression that are 
alike forcible in themselves and forcible from their associations 
produces the peculiarly impressive species of composition which we 
call poetry. Poetry, we shall find, habitually adopts those sym- 
bols of thought, and those methods of using them, which instinct 
and analysis agree in choosing as most effective, and becomes 
poetry by virtue of doing this. On turning back to the various 
specimens that have been quoted, it will be seen that the direct 
or inverted form of sentence predominates in them, and that to a 
degree quite inadmissible in prose. And not only inthe fre- 
quency, but in what is termed the violence, of the inversions, will 
this distinction be remarked. In the abundant use of figures, 
again, we may recognize the same truth. Metaphors, similes, 
hyperboles, and personifications are the poet's colors, which he 
has liberty to employ almost witliout limit. We characterize as 
"poetical" the prose wliich repeats these appliances of language 
with any frequency, and condemn it as "over-florid" or "af- 
fected" long before they occur with the profusion allowed in 

3 



34 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

verse. Further : let it be remarked, that, in brevity, the other 
requisite of forcible expression which theory points out, and 
emotion spontaneously fulfills, poetical phraseology similarly dif- 
fers from ordinary phraseology. Imperfect periods are frequent ; 
elisions are perpetual; and many of the minor words, which 
would be deemed essential in prose, are dispensed with. 

37. Thus poetry, regarded as a vehicle of thought, is especially 
impressive, partly because it obeys all the laws of effective speech, 
and partly because in so doing it imitates tlie natural utterances 
of excitement. Whilst the matter embodied is idealized emotion, 
the vehicle is the idealized language of emotion. As the musical 
composer catches the cadences in which our feelings of joy and 
sympathy, grief and despair, vent themselves, and out of these 
germs evolves melodies suggesting higlier phases of these feel- 
ings ; so the poet develops, from the typical expressions in 
which men utter passion and sentiment, those choice forms of 
verbal combination in which concentrated passion and sentiment 
may be fitly presented. 

38. There is one peculiarity of poetry, conducing much to its 
effect, — the peculiarity which is indeed usually thought its char- 
acteristic one, — still remaining to be considered: we mean its 
rhythmical structure. Tliis, unexpected as it may be, will be 
found to come under the same generalization with the others. 
Like each of them, it is an idealization of the natural language of 
emotion, w^hich is known to be more or less metrical if the emotion 
be not violent ; and, like each of them, it is an economy of the 
reader's or hearer's attention. In the peculiar tone and manner 
we adopt in uttering versified language may be discerned its rela- 
tionship to the feelings ; and the pleasure which its measured move- 
ment gives us is ascribable to the comparative ease with wliich 
words metricall}'" arranged can be recognized. Tliis last position 
will scarcely bo at once admitted ; but a little explanation will show 
its reasonableness. For if, as we have seen, there is an expendi- 
ture of mental energy in the mere act of listening to verbal artic- 
ulations, or in that silent repetition of them which goes on in 
reading ; if the perceptive faculties must be in active exercise 
to identify every syllable, — then any mode of combining words 
so as to present a regular recurrence of certain traits which the 
mind can anticipate will diminish that strain upon the atten- 
tion required by the total irregularity of prose. In the same 
manner that the body in receiving a series of varying concussions 
must keep the muscles ready to meet the most violent of them, 
as not knowing when such may come; so the mind, in receiv- 
ing unarranged articulations, must keep its perceptives active 
enough to recognize the least easily caught sounds. And as, if 
the concussions recur in a definite order, the body may husband 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 35 

its forces by adjusting the resistance needful for each concussion ; 
so, if the sylhibles be rhytbmically arranged, the mind may 
economize its energies by anticipating the attention required for 
each sylhible. Far-fetched as this idea will perhaps be thought, 
a little introspection will countenance it. That we do take ad- 
vantage of metrical language to adjust our perceptive faculties to 
tlie force of the expected articulations, is clear from the fact that 
we are balked by halting versification. Much as, at the bottom 
of a flight of stairs, a step more or less than we counted upon 
gives us a shock; so, too, does a misplaced accent or a super- 
numerary syllable. In the one case, we know that there is an 
erroneous pre-adjustment ; and we can scarcely doubt that there is 
one in the other. But, if we habitually pre-adjust our percejjtions 
to the measured movement of verse, the physical analogy lately 
given renders it probable that by so doing we economize atten- 
tion ; and hence that metrical language is more effective than 
prose, simply because it enables us to do this. 

Were there space, it might be worth wdiile to inquire whether 
the pleasure we take in rhyme, and also that which we take in 
euphonj^, are not partly ascribable to the same general cause. 

ECONOMY OF THE SENSIBILITIES. 

39. A few paragraphs only can be devoted to a second division 
of our subject that liere presents itself To pursue in detail the 
laws of effect, as seen in the larger features of composition, would 
exceed both our limits and our purpose ; but we may fitly indi- 
cate some further aspect of the general principle hitherto traced 
out, and hint a few of its wider applications. 

Thus far, then, we have considered only those causes of force 
in language wliich dej^end upon economy of the mental eaergles : 
we liave now briefl}^ to glance at those which depend upon econ- 
omy of tlie mental sensibilities. Indefensible though this diver- 
sion may be as a psychological one, it will yet serve roughly to 
indicate tlie remaining field of investigation. It will suggest, 
that, besides considering the extent to which any faculty, or group 
of faculties, is taken in receiving a form of words, and realizing 
its contained idea, we have to consider the state in which this 
faculty, or group of faculties, is left, and how the reception of 
subsequent sentences and images will be influenced by that state. 
Without going at length into so wide a topic as the exercise of 
faculties, and its re-active effects, it will be sufficient here to call 
to mind that every faculty (when in a state of normal activity) is 
most capable at the outset; and that the change in its condition 
which ends in what we term exhaustion begins simultaneously 
with its exercise. This generalization, with which we are all 



36 ENGLISH LITEKATUEE. 

familiar in our bodily experiences, and which our daily language 
recognizes as true of the mind as a whole, is equally true of each 
mental power, from the simplest of the senses to the most com- 
plex of the sentiments. If we hold a flower to the nose for a long 
time, we become insensible to its scent. We say of a very brilliant 
flash of lightning, that it blinds us; which means that our eyes 
have for a time lost their ability to appreciate light. After eat- 
ing a quantity of honey, we are apt to think our tea is without 
sugar. The phrase, " A deafening roar,^' implies that men find a 
very loud sound temporarily incapacitates them for hearing faint 
ones. l!^ow, the truth which we at once recognize in these, its 
extreme manifestations, may be traced throughout; and it may 
be shown, that alike in the reflective faculties, in the imagina- 
tion, in the perceptions of the beautiful, the ludicrous, the sub- 
lime, in tlie sentiments, the instincts, in all the mental powers, 
however we may classify them, action exhausts; and that, in 
proportion as the action is violent, the subsequent prostration is 
great. 

40. Equally, throughout the whole nature, may be traced the law, 
that exercised faculties are ever tending to resume their original 
state. Not only, after continued rest, do they regain their full 
power, not only do brief cessations partially re-invigorate them, 
but, even whilst they are in action, the resulting exhaustion 
is ever being neutralized. The two processes of waste and repair 
go on together. Hence, with faculties habitually exercised, as the 
senses in all or the muscles in a laborer, it happens, that, during 
modern activity, the repair is so nearly equal to the waste, tliat 
the diminution of power is scarcely appreciable ; and it is only 
when the activity has been long continued, or has been very 
violent, that the repair becomes so far in arrear of the waste as 
to produce a perceptible prostration. In all cases, however, when, 
by the action of a faculty, waste has been incurred, some lapse of 
time must take place before full efficiency can be re-acquired ; and 
this time must be long in proportion as the waste has been great. 

41. Keeping in mind these general truths, we shall be in a con- 
dition to understand certain causes of effect in composition now to 
be considered. Every perception received, and every conception 
realized, entailing some amount of v.^aste, — or, as Liebig would 
say, some change of matter in the brain, — and the efficiency of 
the faculties subject to this waste being tliereby temporaril}^ 
though often but momentarily, diminished, the resulting partial 
inability must affect the acts of perception and conception that 
immediately succeed. And hence we may expect that the vivid- 
ness with which images are realized will in many cases depend 
on the order of their presentation, even when one order is as 
convenient to the understanding as the other. We shall find 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 37 

sundry facts wliicli alike illustrate this, and are explained by 
it. Climax is one of them. The marked effect obtained by 
placing last the most striking of any series of images, and 
the weakness — often ludicrous weakness — produced by revers- 
ing this arrangement, depend on the general law indicated. 
As, immediately after looking at the sun, we can not perceive 
the light of a fire, whilst by looking at the fire first, and the 
sun afterwards, we can perceive both; so, after receiving a 
brilliant or weighty or terrible thought, we can not appreciate a 
less brilliant, less weighty, or less terrible one, whilst, by revers- 
ing tlie order, we can appreciate each. 

42. In Antithesis, again, we may recognize the same general 
truth. The opposition of two thoughts that are the reverse of 
each other in some prominent trait insures an impressive effect, 
and does tliis by giving a momentary relaxation of the faculties 
addressed. If, after a series of images of an ordinary character, 
appealing in a moderate degree to the sentiment of reverence or 
approbation or beauty, the mind has presented to it a very insig- 
nificant, a very unworth}^, or a very ugly image, the faculty of 
reverence or approbation or beauty, as the case may be, having 
for the time nothing to do, tends to resume its fidl power, and 
will immediately afterwards appreciate a vast, admirable, or beau- 
tifal image better than it would otherwise do. Improbable as 
these momentary variations in susceptibility will seem to many, 
we can not doubt their occurrence when we contemplate the analo- 
gous variations in the susceptibility of the senses. Keferring once 
more to phenomena of vision, every one knows that a patch of 
black on a white ground looks blacker, and a patch of white on 
a black ground looks whiter, than elsewhere. As the blackness 
and the whiteness must really be the same, the only assignable 
cause for this is a difterence in their action upon us, dependent 
upon the different states of our faculties. It is simply a visual 
antithesis. 

43. But this extension of the general principle of economy, this 
further condition of eftect in composition, — that the power of the 
faculties must be continuously husbanded, — includes much more 
than has been yet hinted. It implies, not only that certain 
arrangements and certain juxtapositions of connected ideas are 
best, but that some modes of dividing and presenting the subject 
will be more effective than others, and that, too, irrespective of 
its logical cohesion. It shows why we must progress from the 
less interesting to the more interesting; and why not only the 
composition as a whole, but each of its successive portions, should 
tend towards a climax. At the same time, it forbids long con- 
tinuity of the same species of thought, or repeated production of 
the same effects. It warns us against the error committed both 



38 EliTGLISH LITERATUKE. 

by Popa in his poems and by Bacon in his essays, — the error, 
namely, of constant!}'- employing tlie most effective forms of ex- 
pression ; and it points out, that as the easiest posture by and by 
becomes fatiguing, and is with pleasure exchanged for one less 
easy, so the most perfectly constructed sentences will soon weary, 
and relief will be given by using those of an inferior kind. Fur- 
ther, it involves that not only should we avoid generally com- 
bining our words in one manner, however good, or working out 
our figures and illustrations in one way, however telling, but we 
should avoid any thing like uniform adherence even to the wider 
conditions of effect. We should not make every section of our 
subject progress in interest ; we should not alwaj^s rise to a cli- 
max. As we sa}", that, in single sentences, it is but rarely allow- 
able to fulfill all the conditions of strength ; so, in the larger 
portions of a composition, we must not often conform entirely to 
the law indicated. We must subordinate the component effects 
to the total effect. 

44, In deciding how practically to carry out the principles of 
artistic composition, we may derive help by bearing in mind a fact 
already pointed out, — the fitness of certain verbal arrangements 
for certain kinds of thought. That constant variety in the mode 
of presenting ideas which the theory demands will in a great 
degree result from a skillful adaptation of the form to the matter. 
We saw how the direct or inverted sentence is spontaneousl}'^ used 
by excited people, and how their language is also characterized 
by figures of speech and by extreme brevity. Hence these may 
with advantage predominate in emotional passages, and may 
increase as the emotion rises. On the other hand, for complex 
ideas, the indirect sentence seems the best vehicle. In conversa- 
tion, the excitement produced by the near approach to a desired 
conclusion will often show itself in a series of short, sharp sen- 
tences ; whilst, in imjoressing a view already enunciated, we gen- 
erally make our periods voluminous by piling thought upon 
thought. These iiatural modes of procedure ma}'- serve as guides 
in writing. Keen observation and skillful analysis would, in like 
manner, detect many other peculiarities of expression produced 
by other attitudes of mind; and, by paying due attention to all 
such traits, a writer possessed of sufiicient versatility might make 
some approach to a completely organized work. 

45. This species of composition, which the law of effect points 
out as the perfect one, is the one which high genius tends naturally 
to produce. As we found that the kinds of sentence which are 
theoretical]}'- best are those generally employed by superior minds, 
and by inferior minds when excitement has raised them ; so we 
shall find that the ideal form for a poem, essay, or fiction, is that 
which the ideal writer would evolve spontaneously. One in 



THE PHILOSOPHY OF STYLE. 39 

wliom the powers of expression fully responded to the state of 
mind would unconsciously use that variety in the mode of pre- 
senting his thoughts which Art demands. This constant employ- 
ment of one species of phraseology, which all have now to strive 
against, implies an undeveloped faculty of language. To have a 
specific style is to be poor in speech. If we glance back at the 
past, and remember tliat men had once only nouns and verbs to 
convey their ideas with, and that from then to now the growth 
has been towards a greater number of implements of thought, 
and, consequent!}^, towards a greater complexity and variety in 
their combinations, we may infer that we are now, in our use of 
sentences, much what the primitive man was in his use of 
words ; and tliat a continuance of the process that has hitherto 
gone on must produce increasing heterogeneity in our modes of 
expression. 

46. As, now, in a fine nature, the play of the features, the 
tones of the voice and its cadences, vary in harmony with every 
thought uttered ; so, in one possessed of a fully-developed power 
of speech, the mold in which combination of w^ords is cast will 
similarly vary with, and be appropriate to, the sentiment. That 
a perfectly endowed man must unconsciously write in all styles, 
we may infer from considering how styles originate. • Why is 
Addison diffuse, Johnson pompous. Goldsmith simple ? Why is 
one author abrupt, another rlij^thmical, another concise ? Evi- 
dently, in each case, tlie habitual mode of utterance must depend 
upon the habitual balance of the nature. The predominant feel- 
ings have by use trained the intellect to represent them. But, 
whilst long though unconscious discipline has made it do this 
efiiciently, it remains, from lack of practice, incapable of doing 
the same for the less powerful feelings ; and, when tliese are ex- 
cited, the usual modes of expression undergo but a slight modifi- 
cation. Let the powers of speech be fully developed, how^ever, 
let the ability of the intellect to convey the emotions be complete, 
and this fixity of style will disappear. Tlie perfect writer will 
express himself as Junius, when in the Junius frame of mind ; 
when he feels as Lamb felt, will use a like familiar speech ; and 
will fall into the ruggedness of Carlyle when in a Carlylean mood. 
Now he will be rhythmical, and now irregular ; here his language 
will be plain, and there ornate ; sometimes his sentences will be 
balanced, and at other times unsymmetrical ; for a while there 
will be considerable sameness, and then, again, great variety. 
Ffom his mode of expression naturally responding to his state of 
feeling, there will flow from his pen a composition changing to 
the same degree that the aspects of his subject change. He will 
thus, without effort, conform to what we have seen to be the laws 
of effect. And, whilst his work presents to the reader that variety 



40 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

needful to prevent continuous exertion of the same faculties, it 
will also answer to the description of all highly-organized prod- 
ucts both of man and of nature : it will be, not a series of like 
parts simply placed in juxtaposition, but one whole made up of 
unlike parts that are mutually dependent. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 

Born Nov. 3, 1794, Cummington, Mass. 

It is eminently fitting for xis to begin the study of English literature with the 
name of this veteran poet and most accomplislied master of pure English. 

From 1808, the date of his first published literary efibrt, to the present time, 1870, 
a period of more than sixty years, the poAver and beauty of the language have been 
almost continuously illustrated by his genius. Combining in the rarest manner in 
himself the true poet, the careful critic, and the political philosopher, it would be 
difficult to say in which character he has performed the most distinguished services 
to humanity. For beauty and purity of thought and expression, his poems, and for 
sound logic, and lucidity of style, his political writings, place him in the front rank 
of modern authors. 

PEIXCirAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" Thanatopsis ; " "Inscription for an Entrance into a Wood;" "Letters of a 
Traveler;" Second Series of " Letters of a Traveler;" " The Waterfowl ; " "The 
Ages;" three volumes of Poems; Contributions as editor and correspondent of 
" The New- York Evening Post" since 1826; " Translation of Homer," 1870. 



THANATOPSTS. 

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Connn union with her visible forms, she speaks 
A various language : for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings ; while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the de])ths of air — 
Comes a still voice : " Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 



WILLIAM CTTLLEN BRYANT. 41 

In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground 

Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 

Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 

Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 

Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again : 

And lost each human trace, surrendering up 

Thine individual being, shalt thou go 

To mix for ever with the elements ; 

To be a brother to the insensible rock, 

And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain 

Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak 

Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 

Shalt thou retire alone ; nor couldst thou wish 

Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 

With patriarchs of the infant world, with kings, 

The powei-iul of the earth, the wise, the good, 

Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, — 

All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills, 

Eock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales 

Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 

The venerable woods ; rivers that move 

In majesty, and the complaining brooks 

That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, 

Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 

Are but the solemn decorations, all. 

Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 

The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 

Are shining on the sad abodes of death 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 

The globe are but a handful to the tribes 

That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 

Of morning ; traverse Barca's desert sands ; 

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 

Wliere rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 

Save its own dashings : yet the dead are there ; 

And millions in those solitudes, since first 

The flight of years began, have laid them doAvn 

In their last sleep : the dead reign there alone. 

So shalt thou rest. And what if thou withdraw 

In silence from the living, and no friend 

Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 

Will share thy destiny. Tlie gay will laugh 

When thou art gone ; the solemn brood of care 

Plod on ; and each one, as before, will chase 

His favorite phantom : yet all these shall leave 

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 

And make their bed with thee. As the long train 

Of ages o:lides away, the sons of men, 

The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 

In the full strength of years, matron and maid. 

And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, 



42 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that, when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan which moves 
To that mysterious realm where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night 
Scourged to his dungeon ; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." 



TEE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE, 

WiTHrN" this lowly grave a conqueror lies ; 
And yet the monument proclaims it not, 
Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought 
The emblems of a fame that never dies, — 
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf. 
Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. 
A simple name alone. 
To the great world unknown, 
Is graven here ; and wild-flowers rising round — 
Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground — 
Lean lovingly against the humble stone. 

Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart 
No man of iron mold and bloody hands, 
Who sought to wreak upon the cowering lands 
The passions that consumed his restless heart ; 
But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, 
Gentlest in mien and mind 
Of gentle womankind, 
Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame ; 
One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made 
Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May ; 
Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade ■ 
Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. 

Nor deem, that, when the hand that molders here 
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, 

And armies mustered at the sign, as when 
Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy east, — 

Gray captains leading bands of veteran men 
And fiery youths to be the vultures' feast. 
Not thus were waged the mifrhty wars that gave 
The victory to her who fills this grave. 
Alone her task was wrought ; 
Alone the battle fought : 
Through that long strife her constant hope was stayed 
On God alone, nor looked for other aid. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 43 

She met tlie> hosts of sorrow with a look 

That altered not beneath the frown they wore ; 
And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took 

Meekly her gentle rule, and h'owned no more. 
Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, 
And calmly broke in twain 
The fiery shafts of pain, 
And rent the nets of passion from her path ; 

By that victorious hand despair was slain. 
With love she vanquished hate, and overcame 
Evil with good in her Great Master's name. 

Her glory is not of this shadowy state, — 

Glory that with the fleeting season dies ; 
But, when she entered at the sapphire gate, 

What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! 
How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, 
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung ! 
And He who, long before, 
Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore. 
The mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet. 
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat ; 
He who, returning glorious from the grave, 
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. 

See ! as I linger here, the sun grows low ; 

Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. 
O gentle sleeper ! from thy grave 1 go 

Consoled, though sad, in liope, and yet in fear. 
Brief is the time, I know, 
The warfare scarce begun ; 
Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won : 
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee. 

The victors' names are yet too few to fill 
Heaven's mighty roll ; the glorious armory 

That ministered to thee is opened still. 



THE PA S T. 

Thou unrelenting Past ! 
Strong are the barriers round thy dark domain, 

And fetters sure and fast 
Hold all that enter thy unbreathing reign. 

Far in thy realm withdrawn, 
Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom ; 

And glorious ages gone 
Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb. 



ENGLISH LITER ATUEE. 

Cliildliood with all its niirtli, 
Youth, manhood, age that di^aws us to the ground, 

And, last, man's life on earth. 
Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound. 

Thou hast my better years ; 
Thou hast my earlier friends, — the good, the kind, 

Yielded to thee Avith tears ; 
The venerable form, the exalted mind. 

My spirit yearns to bring 
The lost ones back, yearns Avith desire intense, 

And struggles hard to wring 
Thy bolts apart, and pluck thy captives thence. 

In vain : thy gates deny 
All passage save to those who hence depart ; 

Nor to the streaming eye 
Thou giv'st them back, nor to the broken heart. 

In thy abysses hide 
Beauty and excellence unknown : to thee 

Earth's wonder and her i)ride 
Are gathered as the waters to the sea, — 

Labors of good to man ; 
Unpublished charity ; unbroken faith ; 

Love that 'midst grief began, 
And grew with years, and faltered not in death. 

Full many a mighty name 
Lm-ks in thy depths, unuttered, unrevered : 

With thee are silent fame. 
Forgotten arts, and wisdom disappeared. 

Thine for a space are they : 
Yet shalt thou yield thy treasures up at last ; 

Thy gates shall yet give way. 
Thy bolts shall fall, inexorable Past ! 

All that of good and fair 
Has gone into thy womb from earliest time 

Shall then come forth to wear 
The glory and the beauty of its prime. 

They have not perished : no ! 
Kind words, remembered voices once so sweet. 

Smiles radiant long ago, 
And features the great soul's apparent seat, — 

All shall come back ; each tie 
Of pure affection shall be knit again : 

Alone shall Evil die, 
And Sorrow dwell a prisoner in thy reign. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 45 

And then shall I behold 
Him by whose kind, paternal side I sprung ; 

And her who, still and cold, 
Fills the next grave, — the beautiful and young. 



THE EVENING WIND. 

Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou 
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day ! 

Gratefully Hows thy freshness round my brow : 
Thou hast been out upon the deej) at play, 

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, 

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, 

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee 

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea ! 

Nor I alone : a thousand bosoms round 

Inhale thee in the fullness of delight ; 
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound 

Livelier, at coming of the wind of night ; 
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound, 

Lias the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight. 
Go forth into the gathering shade ; go forth, — 
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth ! 

Go rock the little wood-bird in his nest ; 

Curl the still waters bright with stars ; and rouse 
The wide old wood from his majestic rest, 

Summoning from the innumerable boughs 
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast : 

Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows 
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass. 
And where the o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass. 

The faint old man shall lean his silver head 
To feel thee ; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, 

And dry the moistened curls that overspread 

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep ; 

And they who stand about the sick man's bed 
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep. 

And softly part his curtains to allow 

Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow. 

Go : but the circle of eternal change, 

Which is the life of Nature, shall restore, 
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, 

Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more ; 



46 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, 

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore ; 
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem 
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream. 



THE BATTLE-FIELD. 

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, 
Were trampled by a hurrying crowd j 

And fiery hearts and armed hands 
Encountered in the battle-cloud. 

Ah ! never shall the land forget 

How gushed the life-blood of her brave, — 
Gushed, warm with hope and courage yet, 

Upon the soil they fought to save ! 

Now all is calm and fresh and still : 

Alone the chirp of flitting bird, 
And talk of children on the hill, 

And bell of wandering kine, are heard. 

No solemn host goes trailing by 

The black- mouthed gun and staggering wain; 
Men start not at the battle-cry : 

Oh, be it never heard again ! 

Soon rested those who fought ; but thou 

Who minglest in the harder strife 
For truths which men receive not now, — 

Thy warfare only ends with life, — 

A friendless warfare, lingering long 
Through weary day and weary year : 

A wild and many-weaponed throng 
Hang on thy front and flank and rear. 

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. 

And blench not at thy chosen lot. 
The timid good may stand aloof ; 

The sage may frown : yet faint thou not, 

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, 
The foul and hissing bolt of scorn ; 

For with thy side shall dwell, at last. 
The victory of endurance born. 

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; 

The eternal years of God are hers : 
But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, 

And dies among his worshipers. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 47 

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust 

When they who helped thee flee in fear, 
Die full of hope and manly trust 

Like those who fell in battle here. 

Another hand thy sword shall wield, 

Another hand the standard wave, 
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed 

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave. 



THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM. 

O Freedom ! thou art not, as poets dream, 
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs, 
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap 
With which the Roman master crowned his slave 
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man, 
Armed to the teeth, art thou : one mailed hand 
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword ; thy brow, 
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred 
With tokens of old wars ; thy massive limbs 
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched 
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee : 
They could not quench the life thou hast from Heaven. 
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep ; 
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires. 
Have forged thy chain : yet, while he deems thee bound, 
The links are shivered, and the prison-walls 
Fall outward. Terribly thou springest forth, 
As springs the flame above a burning pile. 
And shoutest to the nations, who return 
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies. 

Thy birthright was not given by human hands : 
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields, 
W^hile yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him 
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars. 
And teach the reed to utter simple airs. 
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood, 
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf, — 
His only foes ; and thou with him didst draw 
The earliest furrow on the mountain-side 
Soft with the Deluge. Tyranny himself, 
Tliy enemy, although of reverend look. 
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed. 
Is later born than thou ; and, as he meets 
Tlie grave defiance of thine elder eye. 
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses. 

Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years ; 
But he shall fade into a feebler ao;e, — 



48 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares, 

And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap 

His withered hands, and from their ambush call 

His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send 

Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms. 

To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words 

To charm thy ear ; while his sly imps, by stealth, 

Twine round thee threads of steel, — light thread on thread, 

That grow to fetters ; or bind down thy arms 

With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh ! not yet 

Mayst thou unbrace thy corselet, nor lay by 

Thy sword ; nor yet, O Freedom ! close thy lids 

In slumber : for thine enemy never sleeps ; 

And thou must watch and combat till the day 

Of the new earth and heaven. 



HOMER. 



O Goddess ! sing the wrath of Peleus' son, 
Achilles ; sing the deadly wrath that brought 
Woes numberless upon the Greeks, and swept 
To Hades many a valiant soul, and gave 
Their limbs a prey to dogs, and birds of air : 
For so had Jove appointed, from the time 
When the two chiefs — Atrides, king of men, 
And great Achilles — parted first as foes. 

Which of the gods put strife between the chiefs, 
That they should thus contend ? Latona's son. 
And Jove's. Incensed against the king, he bade 
A deadly pestilence appear among 
The army ; and the men were perishing. 
For Atreus' son, with insult, had received 
Chryses, the priest, who to the Grecian fleet 
Came to redeem his daughter, offering 
Uncounted ransom. In his hand he bore 
The fillets of Apollo, archer-god, 
Upon the golden scepter ; and he sued 
To all the Greeks, but chiefly to the sons 
Of Atreus, the two leaders of the host : — 

" Ye sons of Atreus, and ye other chiefs, 
Well-greaved Achaians, may the gods who dwell 
Upon Olympus give you to o'erthrow 
The city of Priam, and in safety reach 
Your homes ! But give me my beloved child, 
And take her ransom ; honoring him who sends 
His arrows far, — Apollo, son of Jove." 

Then all the other Greeks, applauding, bade 
Eevere the priest, and take the liberal gifts 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 49 

He offered. But the counsel did not please 

Atrides Agamemnon : he dismissed 

The priest with scorn, and added threatening words : — 

" Old man, let me not find thee loitering here 
Beside the roomy ships, or coming back 
Hereafter, lest the fillet thou dost bear, 
And scepter of thy god, protect thee not- 
This maiden I release not till old age 
Shall overtake her in my Argive home. 
Far from her native country, where her hand 
Shall throw the shuttle and shall dress my couch- 
Go ! chafe me not, if thou wouldst safely go." 

He spake : the aged man in fear obeyed 
The mandate, and in silence walked apart 
Along the many-sounding ocean-side ; 
And fervently he prayed the monarch-god, 
Apollo, golden-haired Latona's son : — 

^' Hear me, thou bearer of the silver bow, 
Who guardest Chrysa and the holy isle 
Of Cilia, and art lord in Tenedos 1 
O Smintheus ! if I ever helped to deck 
Thy glorious temple, if I ever burned 
Upon thy altar the fat thighs of goats 
And bullocks, grant my prayer, and let thy shafts 
Avenge upon the Greeks the tears I shed." 

So spake he, supplicating ; and to him 
Phoebus Apollo hearkened. Down he came, 
Down from the summit of the Olympian mount, 
Wrathful in heart. His shoulders bore the bow 
And hollow quiver : there the arrows rang 
Upon the shoulders of the angry god. 
As on he moved. He came as comes the night ; 
And, seated from the ships aloof, sent forth 
An arrow : terrible was heard the clang 
Of that resplendent bow. At first he smote 
The mules and the swift dogs ; and then on man 
He turned the deadly arrow. All around 
Glared evermore the frequent funeral-piles. 
Nine days already had his shafts been showered 
Among the host ; and now, upon the tenth, 
Achilles called the people of the camp 
To council. Juno, of the snow-white arms, 
Had moved his mind to this ; for she beheld 
With sorrow that the men were perishing. 
And when the assembly naet, and now was full. 
Stood swift Achilles in the midst, and said, — 

" To me it seems, Atrides, that 'twere well^ 
Since now our aim is baffled, to return 
4 



50 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Homeward, if death overtake us not ; for war 
And pestilence at once destroy the Greeks. 
But let us first consult some seer or priest 
Or dream-interpreter, — for even dreams 
Are sent by Jove, — and ask him by what cause 
Phoebus Apollo has been angered thus, — 
If by neglected vows or hecatombs ; 
And whether savor of fat bulls and goats 
May move the god to stay the pestilence." 

He spake, and took again his seat. And next 
Rose Calchas, son of Thestor, and the chief 
Of augurs, one to whom were known things past 
And present and to come. He, through the art 
Of divination which Apollo gave. 
Had guided Ilium-ward the ships of Greece. 
With words well ordered warily he spake : — 

" Achilles, loved of Jove, thou biddest me 
Explain the wrath of Phoebus, monarch-god, 
Who sends afar his arrows. Willingly 
Will I make known the cause : but covenant thou, 
And swear to stand prepared, by word and hand, 
To bring me succor; for my mind misgives 
That he who rules the Argives, and to whom 
The Achaian race are subject, will be wroth. 
A sovereign is too strong for humbler men ; 
And, though he keep his choler down a while. 
It rankles, till he sate it, in his heart. 
And now consider : wilt thou hold me safe ? " 

Achilles, the swift-footed, answered thus : — 
" Fear nothing, but speak boldly out vv^hate'er 
Thou knowest, and declare the will of Heaven ; 
For by Apollo, dear to Jove, whom thou, 
Calchas, dost pray to when thou givest forth 
The sacred oracles to men of Greece, 
No man, while yet I live, and see the light 
Of day, shall lay a violent hand on thee 
Among our roomy ships ; no man of all 
. The Grecian armies, though thou name the name 
Of Agamemnon, whose high boast it is 
To stand in power and rank above them all.'* 

Encouraged thus, the blameless seer went on : — 
" 'Tis not neglected vows or hecatombs 
That move him , but the insult shown his priest, 
Whom Agamemnon spurned Avhen he refused 
To set his daughter free, and to receive 
Her ransom. Therefore sends the archer-god 
These woes upon us, and will send them still, 
Nor ever will withdraw his heavy hand 
From our destruction, till the dark-eyed maid, 



WILLIAM CULLEN BEYANT. 61 

Freely, and without ransom, be restored 
To her beloved father, and with her 
A sacred hecatomb to Chrysa sent : 
So may we haply pacify the god." 

Thus having said, the augur took his seat. 
And then the hero-son of Atreus rose, — 
Wide-ruling Agamemnon, — greatly chafed. 
His gloomy heart was full of wrath ; his eyes 
Sparkled like fire. He fixed a menacing look 
Full on the augur Calchas, and began : — 

" Prophet of evil, never hadst thou yet 
A cheerful word for me. To mark the signs 
Of coming mischief is thy great delight. 
Good dost thou ne'er foretell, nor bring to pass. 
And now thou pratest, in thine auguries 
Before the Greeks, how that the archer-god 
Afflicts us thus because I would not take 
The costly ransom offered to redeem 
The virgin-child of Chryses. 'Twas my choice 
To keep her with me ; for I prize her more 
Than Clytemnestra, bride of my young years, 
And deem her not less nobly graced than she, 
In form and feature, mind, and pleasing arts. 
Yet will I give her back if that be best ; 
For gladly would I see my people saved 
From this destruction. Let meet recompense, 
Meantime, be ready, that I be not left 
Alone of all the Greeks without my prize : 
That were not seemly. All of you perceive 
That now my share of spoil has passed from me." 

To him the great Achilles, swift of foot, 
Replied, " Renowned Atrides, greediest 
Of men, where wilt thou that our noble Greeks 
Find other spoil for thee, since none is set 
Apart, a common store ? The trophies brought 
From towns which we have sacked have all been shared 
Among us ; and we could not without shame 
Bid every warrior bring his portion back. 
Yield, then, the maiden to the god, and we, 
The Achaians, freely will appoint for thee 
Threefold and fourfold recompense when Jove 
Gives up to sack this well-defended Troy." 

Then the king Agamemnon answered thus : — 
" Nay, use no craft, all valiant as thou art, 
Godlike Achilles : thou hast not the power 
To circumvent nor to persuade me thus. 
Think'st thou, that, while thou keepest safe thy prize, 
I shall sit idly down, deprived of mine ? 
Thou bid'st me give the maiden back. 'Tis well 



52 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

If to my hands the noble Greeks shall bring 

The worth of what I lose, and in a shape 

That pleases me : else will 1 come myself, 

And seize and bear away thy prize, or that 

Of Ajax or Ulysses ; leaving him 

From whom I take his share to rage at will. 

Another time we will confer of this. 

Now come, and forth into the great salt sea 

Launch a black ship, and muster on the deck 

Men skilled to row ; and put a hecatomb 

On board ; and let the fair-cheeked maid embark, — 

Chryseis. Send a prince to bear command, — 

Ajax, Idomeneus, or the divine 

Ulysses, or thyself, Pelides, thou 

Most terrible of men, that with due rites 

Thou soothe the anger of the archer-god." 

Achilles, the swift-footed, with stern look 
Thus answered : " Ha ! thou mailed in impudence 
And bent on lucre ! Who of all the Greeks 
Can willingly obey thee on the march, 
Or bravely battling with the enemy ? 
I came not to this war because of wrong 
Done to me by the valiant sons of Troy. 
No feud had I with them : they never took 
My beeves or horses ; nor in Phthia's realm. 
Deep-soiled and populous, spoiled my harvest-fields. 
For many a shadowy mount between us lies. 
And waters of the wide-resounding sea. 
Man unabashed ! we follow thee, that thou 
Mayst glory in avenging upon Troy 
The grudge of Menelaus and thy own. 
Thou shameless one ! and yet thou hast for this 
Nor thanks nor care. Thou threatenest now to take 
From me the prize for which I bore long toils 
In battle ; and the Greeks decreed it mine. 
I never take an equal share with thee 
Of booty when the Grecian host has sacked 
Some populous Trojan town. My hands perform 
The harder labors of the fields in all 
The tumult of the fight : but, when the spoil 
Is shared, the largest share of all is thine ; 
While I, content with little, see my ships 
Weary with combat. I shall now go home 
To Phthia : better were it to be there 
With my beaked ships. But here, where I am held 
In little honor, thou wilt fail, I think. 
To gather, in large measure, spoil and wealth." 

Him answered Agamemnon, king of men : — 
" Desert, then, if thou wilt : I ask thee not 
To stay for me. There will be others left 



WILLIAM CULLBN BEYANT. 53 

To do me honor yet ; and, best of all, 

The all-providing Jove is with me still. 

Thee I detest the most of all the men 

Ordained by him to govern. Thy delight 

Is in contention, war, and bloody frays. 

If thou art brave, some deity, no doubt, 

Hath thus endowed thee. Hence, then, to thy home, 

With all thy ships and men ! there domineer 

Over thy myrmidons. I heed thee not, 

Nor care I for thy fury. Thus, in turn, 

I threaten thee : Since Phoebus takes away 

Chryseis, I will send her in my ship. 

And with my friends ; and, coming to thy tent, 

Will bear away the fair-cheeked maid, thy prize, 

Briseis, that thou learn how far I stand 

Above thee, and that other chiefs may fear 

To measure strength with me and brave my power.'* 

The rage of Peleus' son, as thus he spake. 
Grew jfiercer : in that shaggy breast his heart 
Took counsel, whether from his thigh to draw ^ 

The trenchant sword, and, thrusting back the rest, 
Smite down Atrides ; or subdue his wrath. 
And master his own spirit. While he thus 
Debated with himself, and half unsheathed 
The ponderous blade, Pallas Athene came. 
Sent from on high by Juno the white-armed. 
Who loved both warriors, and watched over both. 
Behind Pelides, where he stood, she came, 
And plucked his yellow hair. The hero turned 
In wonder ; and at once he knew the look 
Of Pallas, and the awful-gleaming eye. 
And thus accosted her with winged words : — 
" Why com'st thou hither, daughter of the god ^ 
Who bears the segis ? Art thou here to see 
The insolence of Agamemnon, son 
Of Atreus ? Let me tell thee what I deem 
Will be the event. That man may lose his life, 
And quickly, too, for arrogance like this." 

Book 1. 1-267. 



54 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 

Born Feb. 27, 1807, Portland, Me. 

As Professor of Modern Languages and Belles-Lettres in Bowdoin College from 
1829 to 1835, and in Harvard University from 1835 to 1854, Mr. Longfellow has done 
much to refine and polish the literary taste of his time, both as critic and poet. It 
is superfluous to speak in praise of his numerous literaiy productions, since they 
are sought with equal eagerness at home and abroad. A thorough student in the 
polite literature of all nations, a welcome guest and intelligent observer in American 
and European society, a poet of purest thought and expression, he ennobles life 
with so much generous human sympathy in all his writings, that they are read and 
admired as the thoughts of a cherished friend. 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

"Outre Mer," 1835; "Hyperion," and "Voices of the Night," 1839; "Evan- 
geline," 1847; "The Spanish Student," 1843; "The Golden Legend," 1845; 
"Ballads and Poems," 1841; "Kavanagh," 1848; many minor Poems. "Poets 
and Poetry of Europe," 1845; " Belfrv of Bruges; " " Seaside and Fireside," 1849; 
" The Song of Hiawatha," 1855; " The Courtship of Miles Standish," 1858. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream ; 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real, life is earnest ; 

And the grave is not its goal : 
" Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'* 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow. 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. * 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting ; 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 
Still, like muffled drums, are beating 

Funeral-marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle : 

Be a hero in the strife. 



HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 65 

Trust no Future, liowe'er pleasant ; 

Let the dead Past bury its dead : 
Act, act in the living Present, — 

Heart within, and God o'erhead. 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of Time, — 

Footprints that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er Life's solemn main, — 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, — 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, "• 

Learn to labor and to wait. 



THE REAPER AND TEE FLOWERS, 

There is a Reaper whose name is Death ; 

And with his sickle keen 
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 

And the flowers that groAv between. 

" Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 

" Have naught but the bearded grain V 
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 

I will give them all back again." 

He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes ; 

He kissed their drooping leaves : 
It was for the Lord of Paradise 

He bound them in his sheaves. 

" My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 

The Reaper said, and smiled : 
" Dear tokens of the earth are they, 

Where he was once a child. 

" They shall all bloom in fields of light, 

Transplanted by my care ; 
And saints upon their garments white 

These sacred blossoms wear." 

And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 

The flowers she most did love : 
She knew she should find them all again 

In the fields of light above. 



56 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

Oh ! not in cruelty, not in wrath, 
The Reaper came that day : 

'Twas an angel visited the green earth, 
And took the flowers away. 



FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. 

When the hours of day are numbered, 

And the voices of the night 
Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 

To a holy, calm delight ; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor-wall, — 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door : 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more. 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 
Noble longings for the strife, 

By the roadside fell and perished. 
Weary with the march of life. 

They, the holy ones and weakly. 
Who the cross of suffering bore. 

Folded their pale hands so meekly I 
Spake with us on earth no more ! 

And with them the being beauteous. 
Who unto my youth was given 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes that messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 

With those deep and tender eyes. 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer ; 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 



HENBY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 57 

Oil ! though oft depressed and lonely, 

All my tears are laid aside 
If I but remember only, 

Such as these have lived and died. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read, in some old, marvelous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague. 

That a midnight host of specters pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Praiiue. 



Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream. 
The army of the dead. 

Wliite as a sea-fog landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen ; 

And with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed between. 

No other voice nor sound was there, 

No drum, nor sentry's pace : 
The mist-like banners clasped the air 

As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral-bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer. 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 

Down the broad valley fast and far 

The troubled army fled : 
Up rose the glorious morning-star ; 

The ghastly host was dead. 

T have read, in the marvelous heart of ma 
That strange and mystic scroll, — 

That an army of phantoms vast and wan 
Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, 

In Fancy's misty light. 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentous throuoh the ni^ht. 



58 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen ; 
And with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice nor sound is there 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled : 
Faith shineth as a morning-star ; 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



MAIDENHOOD. 

Maiden with the meek, brown eyes. 
In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies ! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun,— 
Golden tresses, wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing with reluctant feet 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet I 

Gazing with a timid glance 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 59 

Hear'st thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar ? 

O thou child of many prayers ! 

Life hath quicksands, lii'e hath snares : 

Care and age come unawares. 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June- 
Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered; 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 

Gather, then, each flower that grows 
When the young heart overflows, 
To embalm that tent of snows. 

Bear a lily in thy hand : 

Gates of brass can not withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth. 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh ! that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that can not heal. 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart : 
For a smile of God thou art. 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device, — 
" Excelsior ! " 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath ; 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, — 
" Excelsior ! " 



60 ENGLISH LITEKATUKE. 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household-fires gleam warm and brigjit ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone ; 
And from his lips escaped a groan, — 

" Excelsior ! " 

" Try not the pass ! " the old man said ; 
" Dark lowers the tempest overhead ; 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide I " 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
" Excelsior I *' 

" Oh, stay," the maiden said, " and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! " 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye ; 
But still he answered with a sigh, 
"Excelsior!'* 

" Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! 
Beware the awful avalanche ! " 
This was the peasant's last good-night ; 
A voice replied, far np the hight, 
" Excelsior 1 " 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air, 
" Excelsior ! " 

A traveler by the faithful hound 
Half buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device, — - 
" Excelsior ! '* 

Tliere in the twilight cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay ; 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a ialling star, 
"Excelsior!" 



THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP. 

All is finished ; and at length 

Has come the bridal day 

Of beauty and of strength. 

To-day the vessel shall be launched ! 

With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched ; 

And o'er the bay,* 



HENRY WADSWORTH LOKGFELLOW. 61 

Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 

The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontrolled, 

Paces restless to and fro 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

His beating heart is not at rest ; 

And far and wide, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatient for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands. 

Decked with flags and streamers gay. 

In honor of her marriage-day ; 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Round her Hke a vail descending, 

Eeady to be 

The bride of the gray old sea. 

On the deck another bride 
Is standing by her lover's side. 
Shadows from the flags and shrouds, 
Like the shadows cast by clouds, 
Broken by many a sunny fleck. 
Fall around them on the deck. 

The prayer is said. 

The service read ; 

The joyous bridegroom bows his head ; 

And in tears the good old master 

Shakes the brown hand of his son. 

Kisses his daughter's glowing cheek 

In silence, for he can not speak ; 

And ever faster 

Down his own the tears begin to run. 

The worthy pastor — 

The shepherd of that wandering flock 

That has the ocean for its wold. 

That has the vessel for its fold, 

Leaping ever from rock to rock — 

Spake, with accents mild and clear, 

Words of warning, words of cheer, 

But tedious to the bridegroom's ear. 

He knew the chart 

Of the saflor's heart, — 

All its pleasures and its griefs ; 

All its shallows and rocky reefs ; 

All those secret currents that flow 

With such resistless undertow, 



62 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And lift and drift, with terrible force, 

The will from its moorings and its course. 

Therefore he spake, and thus said he : — 

" Like unto ships far off at sea. 

Outward or homeward bound, are we. 

Before, behind, and all around. 

Floats and swings the horizon's bound ; 

Seems at its distant rim to rise 

And climb the crystal wall of the skies, 

And then again to turn and sink. 

As if we could slide from its outer brink. 

Ah ! it is not the sea, 

It is not the sea, that sinks and shelves, 

But ourselves 

That rock and rise 

With endless and uneasy motion, — 

Now touching the very skies, 

Now sinking into the depths of ocean. 

Ah! if our souls but poise and swing 

Like the compass in its brazen ring. 

Ever level and ever true 

To the toil and the task we have to do, 

We shall sail securely, and safely reach 

The Fortunate Isles, on whose shining beach 

The sights we see and the sounds we hear 

Will be those of joy, and not of fear. " 

Tlien the master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand ; 

And, at the word. 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow. 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see 1 she stirs 1 

She starts 1 she moves ! she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel ! 

And, spurning with her foot the ground. 

With one exulting, joyous bound 

She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

And, lo ! from the assembled crowd 

There rose a shout prolonged and loud, 

That to the ocean seemed to say, 

" Take her, O bridegroom old and gray. 

Take her to thy protecting arms, 

With all her youth and all her charms ! " 

How beautiful she is ! How fair 
She lies within those arms that press 
Her form with many a soft caress 
Of tenderness and watchful care ! 



HENRY WADSWOBTH LONGFELLOW. 63 

Sail forth into the sea, O ship ! 
Through wind and wave right onward steer 1 
The moistened eye, the trembling lip, 
Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 

O gentle, loving, trusting wife ! 

And safe from all adversity 

Upon the bosom of that sea 

Thy comings and thy goings be I * 

For gentleness and love and trust 

Prevail o'er angry wave and gust ; 

And in the wreck of noble lives 

Something immortal still survives. 

Thou, too, sail on, Ship of State I 

Sail on, O Union strong and great 1 

Humanity with all its fears. 

With all the hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless on thy fate. 

We know what master laid thy keel ; 

What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel ; 

Wlio made each mast and sail and rope; 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat ; 

In what a forge and what a heat 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock : 

'Tis of the wave, and not the rock ; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail, 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock, and tempest's roar. 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea : 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee; 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee, — are all with thee ! 



ETAWA TEA'S WOOING. 

" As unto the bow the cord is. 
So unto the man is woman : 
Though she bends him, she obeys him ; 
Though she draws him, yet she follows : 
Useless each without the other." 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself, and pondered. 
Much perplexed by various feelings ; 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing. 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 



64 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dakotahs. 

" Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis : 
" Go not eastward, go not westward, 
For a stranger whom we know not. 
Like a fire upon the hearth-stone 
Is a neighbor's homely daughter ; 
Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers." 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis ; 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this : '' Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight ; 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight." 

Gravely then said old Nokomis, 
" Bring not here an idle maiden. 
Bring not here a useless woman, — 
Hands unskillful, feet unwilling : 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands." 

Smiling answered Hiawatha, 
" In the land of the Dakotahs 
Lives the arrow-maker's daughter, — 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam : 
She shall run upon your errands, 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people." 

Still dissuading said Nokomis, 
" Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs. 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs ; 
Often is there war between us : 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, — 
Wounds that ache, and still may open." 

Laughing answered Hiawatha, 
" For that reason, if no other. 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgotten. 
And old wounds be healed for ever." 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women ; 
Striding over moor and meadow. 
Through interminable forests. 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasins of magic, 



HENEY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 60 

At eacli stroke a mile he measured : 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outran his footsteps ; 
And he journeyed without resting, 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard the Falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
" Pleasant is the sound," he murmured ; 
" Pleasant is the voice that calls me." 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow-deer were feeding ; 
But they saw not Hiawatha. 
To his bow he whispered, " Fail not ! " 
To his arrow whispered, " Swerve not ! *' 
Sent it singing on its errand 
To the red heart of the roebuck ; 
Threw the deer across his shoulder. 
And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper. 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty. 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter. Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes : 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were ; 
And the maiden's, of the futm^e. 

He was thinking, as he sat there, 
Of the days when vv'ith such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison 
On the Muskoday, the meadow ; 
Shot the wild-goose flying southward, 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; 
Thinking of the great war-parties. 
How they came to buy his arrows. 
Could not fight without his an-ows. 
Ah ! no more such noble wamors 
Could be found on earth as they Avere : 
Now the men were all like women, — 
Only used their tongues for weapons I 

She was thinking of a hunter 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall and very handsome. 
Who one morning, in the springtime, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam. 
Lingered long about the doorway. 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
5 



66 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Praise his courage and his wisdom : 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the falls of Minnehaha ? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, 
Heard a rustling in the branches ; 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer across his shoulders, 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway ; 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
" Hiawatha, you are welcome ! '* 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders ; 
And the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes. 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
" You are welcome, Hiawatha ! " 

Very spacious was the wigwam. 
Made of deer-skin dressed and whitened, 
With the gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains ; 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter. 
Hardly touched his eagle feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 
Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha, 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels. 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking. 
Listened while her father answered ; 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, — 
Chibiabos the musician, 
And the very strong man, Kwasind, — 
And of happiness and plenty 
In the land of the Ojibways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 67 

" After many years of warfare, 
Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha ; 
And then added, speaking slowly, 
" That this peace may last for ever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women." 

And the ancient arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered. 
Smoked a little while in silence. 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely : 
" Yes, if Minnehaha wishes : 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha." 

And the lovely Laughing AVater 
Seemed more lovely as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
" I will follow you, my husband." 

This was Hiawatha's wooing : 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 

Born 1808, near HAVERHiiiii, Mass. 

Mr. Whittier, the Quaker Poet, has lived in Amesbury since 1840. As editor of 
" The New-England Weekly Review," " Pennsylvania Review," and contributor to 
" The National Era " and " The Atlantic Monthly," he has everywhere devoted him- 
self to the cause of truth and justice. No poet has spoken with more tenderness for 
humanity, or waged war more constantly and more defiantly with error and 
oppression. His intense hatred of wrong, and inexhaustible sympathy for struggling 
manhood, are always expressed with remarkable force and beauty in his prose and 
poetry. 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" Mogg Megom," 1836 ; " Tent on the Beach ; " " Voices of Freedom ; " " Barefoot 
Boy ; " " Old Portraits and Modern Sketches ; " " Songs of Labor, and Other Poems; " 
" Snowbound." Poems in three volumes, or complete in one. 



68 ENGLISH LITER ATUEE. 



THE ETERNAL GOODNESS. 

FRiEJSfDS with whom my feet have trod 
The quiet aisles of prayer ! 

Glad witness to yom' zeal for God 
And love of man I bear. 

1 trace your lines of argument ; 
Your logic, linked and strong, 

I weigh as one who dreads dissent, 
And fears a doubt as wrong. 

But still ray human hands are weak 

To hold your iron creeds : 
Against the words ye bid me speak 

My heart witliin me pleads. 

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought ? 

Who talks of scheme and plan ? 
Tlie Lord is God : he needeth not 

The poor device of man. 

I walk, with bare, hushed feet, the ground 
Ye tread with boldness shod : 

I dare not ifix with mete and bound 
The love and power of God. 

Ye praise his justice : even such 

His pitying love I deem. 
Ye seek a king : I fain would touch 

The robe that hath no seam. 

Ye see the curse which overbroods 

A world of pain and loss : 
I hear our Lord's beatitudes, 

And prayer upon the cross. 

More than your schoolmen teach, within 

Myself, alas ! I know : 
Too dark ye can not paint the sin, 

Too small the merit show. 

I bow my forehead to the dust ; 

I vail mine eyes for shame ; 
And urge, in trembling self-distrust, 

A prayer without a claim. 

I see the wrong that round me lies ; 

I feel the guilt within ; 
I hear, with groan and travail-cries. 

The world confess its sin. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 69 

Yet, in the maddening maze of things, 

And tossed by storm and flood, 
To one fixed stake my spirit clings : 

I know that God is good. 

Not mine to look where cherubim 

And seraphs may not see ; 
But nothing can be good in him 

Which evil is in me. 

The wrong that pains my soul below 

I dare not throne above. 
I know not of his hate : I know 

His goodness and his love. 

I dimly guess, from blessings known, 

Of greater out of sight ; 
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own 

His judgments, too, are right. 

I long for household voices gone ; 

For vanished smiles I long : 
But God hath led my dear ones on, 

And he can do no wrong. 

I know not what the future hath 

Of marvel or surprise, 
Assured alone that life and death 

His mercy underlie' s. 

And, if my heart and flesh are weak 

To bear an untried pain, 
The bruised reed he will not break, 

But strengthen and sustain. 

No offering of my own I have, 

Nor works my faith to prove : 
I can but give the gifts he gave, 

And plead his love for love. 

And so beside the silent sea 

I wait the muffled oar : 
No harm from him can come to me 

On ocean or on shore. 

I knoAv not where his islands lift 

Their fronded palms in air : 
I only know I can not drift 

Beyond his love and care. 

O brothers ! if my faith is vain, 

If hopes like these betray, 
Pray for me that my feet may gain 

The sure and safer way. 



70 ENGLISH LITER ATUKE. 

And thou, O Lord ! by wliom are seen 
Thy creatures as they be, 

Forgive me if too close I lean 
My human heart on thee. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

"Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away 
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array. 
Who is losing ? who is winning ? Are they far ? or come they near ? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear." 

" Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls. 
Blood is flowing ; men are dying : God have mercy on their souls ! " 
" Who is losing ? who is winning ? " — " Over hill and over plain 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain-rain." 

" Holy Mother, keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena ! look once more 1 " 
" Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before. 
Bearing on in strange coniusion friend and foeman, foot and horse. 
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain- 
course." 

" Look forth once more, Ximena ! " — " Ah ! the smoke has rolled away ; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. 
Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon wheels ; 
There the Northern horses thunder with the cannon at their heels. 

" Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat, and now advance ! 
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together fall : 
Like a plowshare in the fallow through them plows the Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm, and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on. 

*' Speak, Ximena, speak, and tell us who has lost and who has won." 

" Alas, alas ! I know not : friend and foe together fall : 

O'er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, for them all 1 

" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive to rise : 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! 

" O my heart's love ! O my dear one ! lay thy poor head on my knee : 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou hear me ? canst 

thou see ? 
O my husband, brave and gentle ! O my Bernal ! look once more 
On the blessed cross before thee I Mercy, mercy 1 all is o'er 1 " 



JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIEK. 71 

" Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded ; lay the cross upon his breast : 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said : 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid." 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; 
But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt. 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head ; 

With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead : 

But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of 

pain ; 
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand, and faintly smiled : 
Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside her child ? 
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied : 
With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother ! " murmured he, and died. 

" A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth 
From some gentle sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the North ! " 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, 
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. 

" Look forth once more, Ximena ! " — " Like a cloud before the wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind. 
Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded strive : 
Hide your faces, holy angels ! O thou Christ of God, forgive ! " 

Sink, O Night ! among thy mountains ; let the cool gray shadows fall ; 
Dying brothers, fighting demons, — drop thy curtain over all ! 
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled : 
In its sheath the saber rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued : 

Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint, and lacking 

food. 
Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung ; 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. 

Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of ours ; 
Upward through its blood and ashes spring afresh the Eden flowers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer ; 
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimfy in our air. 



72 ENGLISH LITERATUilE. 



THE BAREFOOT BOY. 



Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan ; 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled tunes ; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
With the sunshine on thy face 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace I 
From my heart I give thee joy : 
I was once a barefoot boy. 
Prince thou art : the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million-dollared ride : 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy. 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

Oh for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules. 
Knowledge never learned of schools, — 
Of the wild bee's morning chase ; 
Of the wild-flower's time and place ; 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell ; 
How the woodchuck digs his cell ; 
And the ground-mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young 5 
How the oriole's nest is hung ; 
Where the whitest lilies blow ; 
"Wliere the freshest berries grow ; 
Where the groundnut trails its vine ; 
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay ; 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks. 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy : 
Blessings on the barefoot boy 1 

Oh for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw. 
Me, their master, waited for ! 



JOHN GEEENLEAP WHITTIEE. 73 

I was ricli in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played. 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry-coae 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden-wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel-pond j 
Mine the walnut-slopes beyond ; 
Mine, on bending orchard-trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too : 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy. 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy. 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
(Pewter spoon, and bowl of wood,) 
On the door-stone gray and rude I 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold. 
Looped in many a wind-swung ibid ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs' orchestra, 
And to light the noisy choir 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch : pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy. 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can. 
Though the flinty slopes be hard. 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every mom shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening, from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat : 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison-cells of pride ; 
Lose the freedom of the sod ; 
Like a colt's, for work be shod j 
Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil. 
Happy if their track be found 
IJever on forbidden ground ; 



74 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah that thou couldst know thy joy 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy 1 



SNOW-BOUND. 

The sun that brief December day 

Rose cheerless over hills of gray, 

And, darkly circled, gave at noon 

A sadder light than waning moon. 

Slow tracing down the thickening sky 

Its mute and ominous prophecy, 

A portent seeming less than threat, 

It sank from sight before it set. 

A chill no coat, however stout. 

Of homespun stuff, could quite shut out, 

A hard, dull bitterness of cold, 

That checked, mid-vein, the circling race 

Of life-blood in the sharpened face, 

The coming of the snow-storm told. 

The wind blew east : we heard the roar 

Of Ocean on his wintry shore. 

And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 

Beat with low rhythm our inland air. 

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, — 
Brought in the wood from out of doors ; 
Littered the stalls, and from the mows 
Kaked down the herds-grass for the cows ; 
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn ; 
And, sharply clashing horn on horn, 
Impatient down the stanchion rows 
The cattle shake their walnut-bows ; 
Wliile, peering from his early perch 
Upon the scaffold's pole of birch, 
The cock his crested helmet bent, 
And down his querulous challenge sent. 

Unwarmed by any sunset light. 

The gray day darkened into night, — 

A night made hoary with the swarm 

And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 

As zigzag wavering to and fro 

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow ; 

And, ere the early bedtime came. 

The white drift piled the window-frame ; 

And through the glass the clothes-line posts 

Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 



JOHN GEEENLEAF WHITTIER. 75 

So all night long tlie storm roared on : 

The morning broke without a sun. 

In tiny spherule traced with lines 

Of Nature's geometric signs, 

In starry flake and pellicle, 

All day the hoary meteor fell ; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown, — 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent 

The blue walls of the firmament ; 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow ! 

The old familiar sights of ours 

Took marvelous shapes ; strange domes and towers 

Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood. 

Or garden Avail, or belt of wood ; 

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed ; 

A fenceless drift what once was road ; 

The bridle-post an old man sat, 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat ; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof, 

In its slant splendor seemed to tell 

Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 

A prompt, decisive man, no breath 
Our father wasted : " Boys, a path ! " 
Well pleased, (for when did farmer-boy 
Count such a summons less than joy ?) 
Our buskins on our feet we drew. 
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low 
To guard our necks and ears from snow. 
We cut the solid whiteness through ; 
And, where the drift was deepest, made 
A tunnel walled and overlaid 
With dazzling crystal. We had read 
Of rare Aladdin's wondrous cave ; 
And to our own his name we gave. 
With many a wish the luck were ours 
To test his lamp's supernal powers. 
We reached the barn with merry din. 
And roused the prisoned brutes within. 
The old horse thrust his long head out, 
And, grave with wonder, gazed about ; 
The cock his lusty greeting said. 
And forth his speckled harem led ; 
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked, 
And mild reproach of hunger looked ; 
The horned patriarch of the sheep, 
Like Egypt's Amun roused from sleep. 
Shook iiis sage head with gesture mute, 
And emphasized with stamp of foot. 



76 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

• 
All day the gusty north wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before ; 
Low circling round its southern zone, 
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 
No church-bell lent its Christian tone 
To the savage air, no social smoke 
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak, — 
A solitude made more intense 
By dreary-voiced elements, 
The shrieking of the mindless wind. 
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, 
And on the glass the unmeaning beat 
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. 
Beyond the circle of our hearth 
No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
Unbound the spell, and testified 
Of human life and thought outside. 
We minded that the sharpest ear 
The buried brooklet could not hear. 
The music of whose liquid lip 
Had been to us companionship, 
And in our lonely lite had grown 
To have an almost human tone. 



As night drew on, and from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank 
From sight beneath the smothering bank. 
We piled with care our nightly stack 
Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
And on its top the stout back-stick ; 
The knotty forestick laid apart. 
And filled between with curious art 
The ragged brush ; then, hovering near. 
We watched the first red blaze appear. 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
Until the old, rude-furnished room 
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom ; 
While radiant with a mimic flame 
Outside the sparkling drift became, 
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree 
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. 
The crane and pendent trammels showed ; 
The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed ; 
While childish fancy, prompt to tell 
The meaning of the miracle, 
AVhispered the old rhyme : *' Under the ti'ee, 
When Jire outdoors burns merribi, 
There the witches are making tea." 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMKS. 77 

The moon above the eastern wood 

Shone at its full ; the hill-range stood 

Transfigured in the silver tiood, 

Its blown snows Hashing cold and keen, 

Dead-white, save where some sharp ravine 

Took shadow, or the somber green 

Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black 

Against the whiteness at their back. 

For such a world and such a night 

Most fitting that unwarming light, 

Which only seemed, where'er it fell, 

To make the coldness visible. [Lines 1 to 154. 



OLIYEB WENDELL HOLMES, M.D. 

Born Aug. 29, 1809, Cambridge, Mass. 

Popular writer of prose and poetry. Author of "Autocrat of the Breakfast- 
Table," "Elsie Veaner," and " The Guardian Angel." Poems in two volumes. 



EXTRACT FROM POETRY: A METRICAL ESSAY. 

Some prouder Muse, when comes the hour at last, 
May shake our hillsides with her bugle-blast : 
Not ours the task. But, since the lyric dress 
Relieves the statelier with its sprightliness. 
Hear an old song, which some, perchance, have seen 
In stale gazette, or cobwebbed magazine. 
There was an hour when patriots dared profane 
The mast that Britain strove to bow in vain ; 
And one who listened to the tale of shame. 
Whose heart still answered to that sacred name. 
Whose eye still followed o'er his country's tides 
Thy glorious flag, our brave " Old Ironsides ! " 
From yon lone attic, on a summer's morn. 
Thus mocked the spoilers with his schoolboy scorn : — 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

Long has it waved on high ; 
And many an eye has danced to see 

That banner in the sky. 
Beneath it rung the battle-shout, 

And burst the cannon's roar : 
The meteor of the ocean-air 

Shall sweep the clouds no more 1 



78 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, 

Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 

And waves were white below, 
No more shall feel the victor's tread. 

Or know the conquered knee : 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 

The eagle of the sea 1 

Oh ! better that her shattered hulk 

Should sink beneath the wave : 
Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 

And there should be her grave. 
Nail to the mast her holy flag ; 

Set every threadbare sail ; 
And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale 1 



THE LAST LEAF. 

I SAW him once before 
As he passed by the door; 

And again 
The pavement-stones resound 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane.. 

They say, that in his prime. 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut hiixj down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the crier on his round 

Through the town. 

But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets, 

Sad and wan ; 
And lie shakes his feeble head. 
That it seems as if he said, 

" They are gone ! " 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has presl 

In their bloom ; 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said, — 
Poor old lady ! she is dead 
Long ago, — 



OLIVER WEITDELL HOLMES. 79 

That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was Uke a rose 
In the snow. 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff; 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 
In his laugh. 

I know it is a sin 
For me to sit and grin 

At him here ; 
But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer ! 

And, if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring. 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I clinsj. 



EXTRACT FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. 

I WAS just going to say, when I was interrupted, that one of 
the many ways of classifying minds is under the heads of arith- 
metical and algebraical intellects. All economical and practical 
wisdom is an extension or variation of the following arithmetical 
formula : 2-(-2=4. Every philosophical proposition has the more 
general character of the expression a-|-^=c. We are mere opera- 
tives, empirics, and egotists, until we learn to think in letters in- 
stead of figures. 

They all stared. There is a divinity-student lately come among 
us, to whom I commonly address remarks like the above, allowing 
him to take a certain share in the conversation, so far as assent 
or pertinent questions are involved. He abused his liberty on 
this occasion by presuming to say that Leibnitz had the same ob- 
servation. " No, sir," I replied, " he has not. But he said a mighty 
good thing about mathematics, that sounds something like it; and 
you found it, not in the original, but quoted by Dr. Thomas Reid. 
I will tell the company what he did say, one of these days." 

If I belong to a Society of Mutual Admiration ? — I 

blush to say that I do not at this present moment. I once did, 
however. It was the first association to which I ever heard the 



80" ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



1 



term applied, — a body of scientific young men in a great foreign 
city who admired tlieir teaclier, and, to some extent, each other. 
Many of them deserved it : they have become famous since. It 
amuses me to hear the talk of one of those beings described by 
Thackeray — 

" Letters four do form his name " — 

about a social development which belongs to the very noblest 
stage of civilization. All generous companies of artists, authors, 
philanthropists, men of science, are, or ought to be. Societies of 
Mutual Admiration. A man of genius, or any kind of superi- 
ority, is not debarred from admiring the same quality in another, 
nor the other from returning his admiration. They may even 
associate together, and continue to think highly of each other. 
And so of a dozen such men, if any one place is fortunate enough 
to hold so many. The being referred to above assumes several 
false premises. First, That men of talent necessarily hate each 
other. Secondly, That intimate knowledge or habitual associa- 
tion destroys our admiration of persons whom we esteemed high- 
ly at a distance. Thirdlj^, That a circle of clever fellows, who 
meet together to dine and have a good time, have signed a con- 
stitutional compact to glorify themselves, and to put down him 
and the fraction of the human race not belonging to their num- 
ber. Fourthly, That it is an outrage that he is not asked to join 
them. 

Here the company laughed a good deal; and the old gentleman 
who sits opposite said, " That's it ! that's it ! " 

I continued ; for I was in the talking vein. As to clever peo- 
ple's hating each other, I think a little extra talent does some- 
times make people jealous. They become irritated by perpetual 
attempts and failures, and it hurts their tempers and dispositions. 
Unpretending mediocrity is good, and genius is glorious; but a 
weak flavor of genius in an essentially common person is detesta- 
ble. It spoils the grand neutrality of a commonplace character, 
as the rinsings of an unwashed wineglass spoil a draught of fair 
water. Ko wonder the poor fellow we spoke of, who always be- 
longs to this class of slightly-flavored mediocrities, is puzzled and 
vexed by the strange sight of a dozen men of capacity working 
and playing together in harmony. He and his fellows are always 
fighting. With them, familiarity naturally breeds contempt. If 
they ever praise each other's bad drawings, or broken-winded 
novels, or spavined verses, nobody ever supposed it was from ad- 
miration : it was simply a contract between themselves and a 
publisher or dealer. 

If the Mutuals have really nothing among them worth admir- 
ing, that alters the question. But, if they are men with noble 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 81 

powers and qualities, let me tell you, that, next to youthful love 
and family atfectious, there is no human sentiment better than 
that which unites the Societies of Mutual Admiration. And 
what would literature or art be without such associations ? Who 
can tell what we owe to the Mutual Admiration Society of which 
Sliakspeare, and Ben Jonson, and Beaumont and Fletcher, were 
members? or to that of which Addison and Steele formed the 
center, and which gave us "The Spectator"? or to that where 
Johnson and Goldsmith and Burke and Reynolds and Beau- 
clerc and Boswell, most admiring among all admirers, met to- 
gether ? Was there any great harm in the fact that the Irvings 
and Paulding wrote in company ? or any unpardonable cabal in 
the literary union of Verplanck and Bryant and Sands, and as 
many more as they chose to associate with them ? 

The poor creature does not know what he is talking about 
when he abases this noblest of institutions. Let him inspect its 
mysteries through the knot-hole he has secured, but not use that 
orifice as a medium for his popgun. Such a society is the crown 
of a literary metropolis : if a town has not material for it, and 
spirit and good feeling enough to organize it, it is a mere cara- 
vansary, — ht for a man of genius to lodge in, but not to live in. 
Eoolish people hate and dread and envy such an association of 
men of varied powers and influence because it is lofty, serene, 
impregnable, and, by the necessity of the case, exclusive. Wise 
ones are prouder of the title M. S. M. A. than of all their other 
honors put together. 

All generous minds have a horror of what are commonly 

called "facts." They are the brute beasts of the intellectual do- 
main. Who does not know fellows that always have an ill-con- 
ditioned fact or two which they lead after them into decent com- 
pany like so many bull-dogs, ready to let them slip at every 
ingenious suggestion, or convenient generalization, or pleasant 
fancy? I allow no "facts" at this table. What! because 
bread is good and wholesome and necessary and nourishing, shall 
you thrust a crumb into my windpipe while I am talking? Do 
not these muscles of mine represent a hundred loaves of bread ? 
and is not my thought the abstract of ten thousand of these 
crumbs of truth with which jou would choke off my speech ? 

[The above remark must be conditioned and qualified for the 
vulgar mind. The reader will of course understand the precise 
amount of seasoning which must be added to it before he adopts 
it as one of the axioms of his life. The speaker disclaims all re- 
sponsibility for its abuse in incompetent hands.] 

This business of conversation is a very serious matter. There 
are men that it weakens one to talk with an hour more than a 
day's fasting would do. Mark this that I am going to say ; for 

6 



82 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

it is as good as a working professional man's advice, and costs 
you nothing : It is better to lose a pint of blood from your veins 
than to have a nerve tapped. Nobody measures your nervous 
force as it runs away, nor bandages your brain and marrow after 
the operation. 

There are men of esprit who are excessively exhausting to some 
people. They are the talkers who have what may be cdXl^di jerky 
minds. Their thoughts do not run in the natural order of se- 
quence. They say bright things on all possible subjects; but 
their zigzags rack you to death. After a jolting half-hour with 
one of these jerky companions, talking with a dull friend affords 
great relief. It is like taking the cat in your lap after holding a 
squirrel. 

What a comfort a dull but kindly person is, to be sure, at 
times ! A ground-glass shade over a gas-lamp does not bring 
more solace to our dazzled eyes than such a one to our minds. 

" Do not dull people bore you ? " said one of the lady-boarders, 
— the same that sent me her aiito graph-book last week with a 
request for a few original stanzas, not remembering that " The 
Pactolian " pays me five dollars a line for every thing I write in 
its columns. 

"Madam," said I (she and the century were in their teens 
together), '' all men are bores, except when we want them. There 
never was but one man whom I would trust with my latch-key. '^ 

"Who might that favored person be ?" 

" Zimmerman." 

The men of genius that I fancy most have erectile heads 

like the cobra-di-capello. You remember what they tell of 
William Pinkney, the great pleader ; how, in his eloquent par- 
oxysms, the veins of his neck would swell, and his face flush, and 
his eyes glitter, until he seemed on the verge of apoplexy. The 
hydraulic arrangements for supplying the brain with blood are 
only second in importance to its own organization. The bul- 
bous-headed fellows that steam well when they are at work are 
the men that draw big audiences, and give us marrowy books and 
pictures. It is a good sign to have one's feet grow cold when he 
is writing. A great writer and speaker once told me that he often 
wrote with his feet in hot water : but for this, all his blood would 
have run into his head, as the mercury sometimes withdi-aws into 
the ball of a thermometer. 

You don't suppose that my remarks made at this table 

are like so many postage-stamps, do you, — each to be only once 
uttered? If you do, you are mistaken. He must be a poor 
creature that does not often repeat himself Imagine the author 
of the excellent piece of advice, "Know thyself," never alludiug 
to that sentiment again during the course of a protracted exist- 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 83 

ence ! Why, the truths a man carries about with him are his 
tools ; and do you think a carpenter is bound to use the same 
plane but once to smooth a knotty board with, or to hang up his 
hammer after it has driven its first nail ? I shall never repeat a 
conversation, but an idea often. 1 shall use the same types when 
I like, but not commonly the same stereotypes. A thought is 
often original, though you have uttered it a hundred times. It 
has come to you over a new route, by a new and express train 
of associations. 

Sometimes, but rarely, one may be caught making the same 
speech twice over, and yet be held blameless. Thus a certain 
lecturer, after performing in an inland city where dwells a lit- 
teratrice of note, was invited to meet her and others over the 
social teacup. She pleasantly referred to his many wanderings 
in his new occupation. " Yes," he replied, " I am like the huma, 
the bird that never lights, being always in the cars, as he is 
always on the wing." — Years elapsed. The lecturer visited the 
same place once more for the same purpose. Another social cup 
after the lecture, and a second meeting with the distinguished 
lady. " You are constantly going from place to place," she said. 
— " Yes," he answered, " I am like the huma," — and finished 
the sentence as before. 

What horrors, when it flashed over him that he had made this 
fine speech, word for word, twice over ! Yet it was not true, as 
the lady might perhaps have fairly inferred, that he had embel- 
lished his conversation with the huma daily during that whole 
interval of years : on the contrary, he had never once thought 
of the odious fowl until the recurrence of precisely the same cir- 
cumstances brought up precisely the same idea. He ought to 
have been proud of the accuracy of his mental adjustments. 
Given certain factors, and a sound brain should always evolve 
the same fixed product with the certainty of Babbage's calcu- 
lating-machine. 

What a satire, by the way, is that machine on the mere 

mathematician ! — a Frankenstein-monster ; a thing without 
brains and without heart, too stupid to make a blunder; that 
turns out results like a corn-sheller, and never grows any wiser 
or better, though it grind a thousand bushels of them. 

I have an immense respect for a man of talents plus "the 
mathematics." But the calculating power alone should seem to 
be the least human of qualities, and to have the smallest amount 
of reason in it ; since a machine can be made to do the work of 
three or four calculators, and better than any one of them. 
Sometimes I have been troubled that I had not a deeper intuitive 
apprehension of the relations of numbers. But the triumph of 
the ciphering hand-organ has consoled me. I always fancy I can 



84 ENGLISH LITER ATUEB. 

hear the wheels clicking in a calculator's brain. The power of 
dealing with numbers is a kind of " detached-lever " arrange- 
ment, which may be put into a mighty poor watch. I suppose it 
is about as common as the power of moving the ears voluntarily, 
which is a moderately rare endowment. 

Little localized powers, and little narrow streaks of spe- 
cialized knowledge, are things men are very apt to be conceited 
about. Nature is very wise : but for this encouraging principle, 
how many small talents and little accomplishments would be 
neglected ! Talk about conceit as much as you like : it is to hu- 
man character what salt is to the ocean ; it keeps it sweet, and 
renders it endurable. Say, rather, it is like the natural unguent 
of the sea-fowl's plumage, which enables him to shed the rain that 
falls on him and the wave in which he dips. When one has had 
all his conceit taken out of him, when he has lost all his illu- 
sions, his feathers will soon soak through, and he will ily no 
more. 

"So you admire conceited people, do you?" said the j^oung 
lady who has come to the city to be finished off for — the duties 
of life. 

I am afraid you do not study logic at your school, my dear. 
It does not follow that I wish to be pickled in brine because I 
like a salt-water plunge at Nahant. I say that conceit is just as 
natural a thing to human minds as a center is to a circle. But 
little-minded people's thoughts move in such small circles, that 
five minutes' conversation gives you an arc long enough to deter- 
mine their whole curve. An arc in the movement of a large 
intellect does not sensibly differ from a straight line. Even if 
it have the third vowel as its center, it does not soon betray it. 
The highest thought, that is, is the most seemingly impersonal : 
it does not obviously imply any individual center. 

Audacious self-esteem, with good ground for it, is always im- 
posing. What resplendent beauty that must have been which 
could have authorized Phryne to "peel" in the way she did! 
What fine speeches are those two ! — '■^Non omnis moriarP and 
" I have taken all knowledge to be my province." . . . 

Did I not say to you a little while ago that the universe 



swam in an ocean of similitudes and analogies ? I will not quote 
Cowley or Burns or Wordsworth just now to show you what 
thoughts were suggested to them by the simplest natural objects, 
such as a flower or a leaf; but I will read you a few lines, if you 
do not object, suggested by looking at a section of one of those 
chambered shells to which is given the name of Pearly Nautilus. 
We need not trouble ourselves about the distinction between this 
and the Paper Nautilus, the Argonauta of the ancients. The 



OLIVEB WENDELL HOLMES. 85 

name applied to both shows that each has long been compared to 
a ship, as you may. see more fully in Webster's Dictionary, or the 
" Encyclopedia/' to which he refers. If you will look into Ro- 
get's Bridgewater Treatise, you will find a figure of one of these 
shells, and a section of it. The last will show you the series of 
enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that 
inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. Can you 
find no lesson in this ? 

TEE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

This is the ship of pearl, winch, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer-wind its purpled wings 
In gulfs enchanted, Avhere the siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare ; 
Wlaere the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl: 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl; 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil: 

Still, as the spiral grew. 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new; 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through ; 

Built up its idle door; 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering Sea, 

Cast from her lap forlorn ! 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton bleAv from wreathed horn! 

While on mine ear it rings. 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — 

*' Build thee more stately mansions, my soul ! 

As the swift seasons roll ; 

Leave thy low-vaulted past; 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut tliee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by Life's unresting sea! " 



86 ENGLISH LITEBATtJEE. 

NATHANIEL PAEKER WILLIS. 

BoKjf Jan. 20, 1807, Portland, Me. 

"Pencilings by the Way," "Inklings of Adventure," and "Letters from under 
a Bridge," are among his principal prose-writings. He is best known for his sacred 
poetry, and as editor of " The Home Journal." 



THE DYING ALCHEMIST. 

The night-wind with, a desolate moan swept by, 
And the old shutters of the turret swung 
Screaming upon their hinges ; and the moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 

The fire beneath his crucible was low ; 
Yet still it burned : and, ever as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon his wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
With difficult energy; and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrank back 
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
Muttered a curse on death ! The silent room 
From its dim corners mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath ; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell ; and, when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a phial from beneath his head, 
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed; 
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame. 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself: — 

" I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do ; 
I thought to pierce the eternal secret through 

With this my mortal eye ; 
I felt — O God ! it seemeth even now 
This can not be the death-dew on my brow I 



NATHANIEL PARKEK WILLIS. 87 

And yet it is : I feel, 
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid ! 
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade ; 

And something seems to steal 
Over my bosom like a frozen hand. 
Binding its pulses with an icy band. 

And this is death ! But why 
Feel I this wild recoil ? It can not be 
The immortal spirit shuddereth to be free I 

Would it not leap to fly 
Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call ? 
I fear, I fear, that this poor life is all 1 

Yet thus to pass away ; 
To live but for a hope that mocks at last ; 
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast, 

To waste the light of day. 
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought. 
All that we have and are, for this, for naught ! 

Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit ! — but a day, — to win 
Something to satisfy this thirst within 1 

I would know something here ! 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken ! 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken ! 

Yain, vain ! My brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick. 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 

And 1 am freezing, — burning, — 
Dying ! O God ! if I might only live ! — 
My phial — ha ! it thrills me 1 I revive ! 



Ay, were not man to die. 
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere ! 
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here, 

Could he but train his eye. 
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour. 
Only his Maker would transcend his power ! 

Earth has no mineral strange, 
Tlie illimitable air no hidden wings. 
Water no quality in covert springs. 

And fire no power to change. 
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, 
Which the unwasting soul might not compel. 



ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Oh but for time to track 
The upper stars into the pathless sky; 
To see the invisible spirits eye to eye ; 

To burl the lio:htning back ; 
To tread unhurt the Sea's dim-lighted halls ; 
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon- walls ! 

And more, much more ! — for now 
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move, ■ 
To nurse and purify this human love ; 

To clear the godlike brow 
Of weakness and mistrust, and bow it down, 
Worthy and beautitiil, to the much-loved one 



This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slacken at the living stream ; 
To live — O God ! that life is but a dream ! 

And death — Aha ! I reel, — 
Dim, — dim, — I faint ! — darkness comes o'er my eye ) 
Cover me ! save me ! God of heaven ! I die ! " 



'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone. 
Ko friend had closed his eyelids ; and his lips, 
Open and ashy pale, the expression wore 
Of his death-struggle. His long silvery hair 
Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild ; 
His frame was wasted, and his features wan 
And haggard as Avith want ; and in his palm 
His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 
Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 

The storm was raging still ; the shutters swung 
Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind ; 
And all without went on, as aye it will, 
Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 
in its change. 



The fire beneath the crucible was out ; 
The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
That fashioned them ; and the small rod. 
Familiar to his touch for threescore years, 
Lay on the alembic's rim, as if it still 
Mio-ht vex the elements at its master's will. 



And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire, — a sun-bent eagle stricken 
From his high soaring down, — an instrument 



JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 89 

Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked ! — 
A thing the thrush might pity as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowlj nest ! 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 

Born in 1819, Cambridge, Mass. 

Mr. Lowell resides in Cambridge. He has been Professor of Modem Languages 
and Belles-Lettres in Harvard University since the resignation of Frof. Longfellow. 
Of him tlie editor of the English edition of liis " Biglow Papers " says, " I can not 
help thinking, that (leaving out of sight altogether his satirical works), fifty years 
hence, he will be recognized as the greatest American poet of our day. Greece 
had her Aristophanes; Rome, her Juvenal; Spain, her Cervantes; France, her Rabe- 
lais, her Moliere, her Voltaire; Germany, her Jean Paul, her Heine; England, her 
Swift, her Thackeray ; and America has her Lowell," VVe have decided to select 
from " The Biglow Papers," not simply because they were wi'itten by a political 
satirist of the first rank, but because they have reference to an important period of 
the nation's histoiy; and, besides their wholesome humor, the study of the Yankee 
dialect will not be unprofitable to the pupil, as he wiU there find faults of articula- 
tion into which he may unconsciously have fallen. 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" The Biglow Papers ; " " Sir Launfal ; " " Under the "Willows," and other Poems ; 
"The Cathedral;" and "Among my Books," prose-work. 

Note. — " Sam Slick," by Thomas C. Haliburton, " Major Jack Downing's Let- 
ters," by Seba Smith, "Letters of Petroleum V. Nnsby," by John Locke, " Phce- 
nixiana," by John Phoenix, "Letters of Doesticks," by Mortimer Thompson, and 
" Orpheus C. Ken-," by R. H. Newell, are other productions, humorous and satirical, 
of American society and politics. 



NOTICES OP AN INDEPENDENT PRESS. 

From the Oldfogrumville Mentor, 
" We have not had time to do more than glance through this handsomely- printed 
volume ; but the name of its respectable editor, the Rev. Mr. Wilbur of Jaalam, will 
afibrd a sufficient guaranty for the worth of its contents. . . . The paper is Avhite, 
the type clear, and the volume of a convenient and attractive size. ... In reading 
this elegantly-executed work, it has seemed to us that a passage or two might have 
been retrenched with advantage, and that the general style of diction was suscep- 
tible of a higher polish. ... On the whole, Ave may safely leave the ungrateful task 
of criticism to the reader. We will barely suggest, that in volumes intended, as 
this is, for the illustration of a provincial dialect, and turns of expression, a dash of 
humor or satire might be thrown in with advantage. . . . The work is admirably 
got up. . . . This work will form an appropriate ornament to the center-table. It 
is beautifully printed on paper of an excellent quality." 



90 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 



From the Bungtown Copperund Comprehensive Tocsin (a TryioeaTcly Family Journal). 

" Altogether an admirable work. . . . Full of humor boisterous, but delicate ; of 
wit withering and scorching, yet combined with a pathos cool as morning dew; 
of satire ponderous as the mace of Richard, yet keen as the ciraeter of Saladin. 
... A work full of ' mountain-mirth,' mischievous as Puck, and lightsome as 
Ariel. . . . We know not whether to admire most the genial, fresh, and discursive 
concinnity of the author, or his playful fancy, weird imagination, and compass of 
style, at once both objective and subjective. . . . We might indulge in some criti- 
cisms ; but, were the author other than he is, he would be a different being. As it is, 
he has a wonderful pose^ which flits from flower to flower, and bears the reader 
irresistibly along on its eagle pinions (like Ganymede) to the ' highest heaven of 
invention.' . . . We love a book so purely objective. . . . Many of his pictures of 
natural scenery have an extraordinary subjective clearness and fidelity. ... In 
fine, we consider this as one of the most extraordinary volumes of this or any age. 
We know of no English author who could have written it. It is a work to which 
the proud genius of our country, standing with one foot on the Aroostook and 
the other on the Rio Grande, and holding up the star-spangled banner amid ' the 
wreck of matter and the crush of worlds,' may point with bewildering scorn of 
the punier efforts of enslaved Europe. . . . We hope soon to encounter our author 
among those higher walks of literature in which he is evidently capable of achiev- 
ing enduring fame. Already we should be inclined to assign him a high position 
in the bright galaxy of our American bards." 

From the Onion Grove Phosnix. 
" A talented young townsman of ours, recently returned from a Continental tour, 
and who is already favorably known to our readers by his sprightly letters from 
abroad which have graced our columns, called at our office yesterday. We learn 
from him, that having enjoyed the distinguished privilege, while in Germany, of an 
introduction to the celebrated Von Humbug, he took the opportunity to pi-esent that 
eminent man with a copy of ' The Biglow Papers.' The next morning he received 
the following note, which he has kindly furnished us for publication. We prefer to 
print verbatim, knowing that our readers will readily forgive the few errors into 
which the illustrious writer has fallen through ignorance of our language. 

" ' High- Worthy Mister, — I shall also now especially happy starve, because I 
have more or less a work of one those aboriginal Red-Men seen in which have I so 
deaf an interest ever taken fullworthy on the self shelf with our Gottsched to be 
upset. 

" * Pardon my in the English-speech unpractice ! ^^ ^ y Humbug ' 

" He also sent with the above note a copy of his famous work on ' Cosmetics,' to 
be presented to Mr. Biglow; but this was taken from our friend by the English cus- 
tom-house officers, probably through a petty national spite. No doubt it has by this 
time found its way into the British Museum. We trust this outrage will be exposed 
in all our American papers. We shall do our best to bring it to the notice of the 
State department. Our nm-nerous readers will share in the pleasure we experience 
at seeing our young and vigorous national literature thus encouragingly patted on 
the head by this venerable and world-renowned German. We love to see these 
reciprocations of good feeling between the different branches of the gre^t Anglo- 
Saxon race." 



JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 91 



From the Jaalam Independent Blunderbuss, 
..." Bat, "While we lament to see our young townsman thus mingling in the 
heated contests of party politics, we think we detect in him the presence of talents, 
which, if properly directed, might give an innocent pleasure to many. As a proof 
that he is competent to the production of other kinds of poetry, we copy for our 
readers a short fragment of a pastoral by him, the manuscript of which was loaned 
us by a friend. The title of it is ' The Courtin'.' " 

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown, 

An' peeked in thru the winder ; 
An' there sot Huldy all alone, 

'ith no one nigh to hender. 

Agin' the chimbly crooknecks hung ; 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young 

Fetched back from Concord busted. 

The wannut-logs shot sparkles out 

Towards the pootiest, bless her ! 
An' leetle fires danced all about 

The chiny on the dresser. 

The very room, coz she wuz in, 

Looked warm frum floor to ceilin*; 
An' she looked full ez rosy agin 

Ez th' apples she wuz peelin'. 

She heerd a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

Araspin' on the scraper : 
All ways to once her feelin's flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' I'itered on the mat. 

Some doubtfle o' the seekle : 
His heart kep' goin' pitypat, 

But hern went pity Zekle. 



It remains to speak of the Yankee dialect. And first it may be premised, in 
a general way, that any one much read in the writings of the early colonists need 
not be told that the far gi-eater share of the words and phrases now esteemed pe- 
culiar to New England, and local there, were brought from the mother-country. 
A person familiar with the dialect of certain portions of Massachusetts will not fail 
to recognize in ordinary discourse many words now noted in English vocabularies 
as archaic, the greater part of which were in common use about the time of the 
King James translation of the Bible. Shakspeare stands less in need of a glossary 
to most New-Englanders than to many a native of the Old Country. The peculiari- 
ties of our speech, however, are rapidly wearing out. As there is no country where 
reading is so universal, and newspapers are so multitudinous, so no phrase remains 
long local, but is transplanted in the mail-bags to every remotest comer of the land. 



92 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Consequently our dialect approaches nearer to uniformity than that of any other 
nation. 

The English have complained of us for coining new words. Many of those so 
stigmatized were old ones by them forgotten ; and all make now an unquestioned 
part of the currency wherever English is spoken. Undoubtedly, we have a right 
to make new words as they are needed by the fresh aspects under which life pre- 
sents itself here in the New World ; and indeed, wherever a language is alive, it 
grows. It might be questioned whether we could not establish a stronger title to 
the ownership of the English tongue than the mother-islanders themselves. Hei'e, 
past all question, is to be its great home and center. And not only is it already 
spoken here by greater numbers, but with a far higher popular average of correct- 
ness, than in Britain. The great writers of it, too, we might claim as ours, were 
ownership to be settled by the number of readers and lovers. 

As regards the provincialisms to be met with in this volume, I may say that the 
reader will not find one which is not (as I believe) either native, or imported with 
the early settlers ; nor one which I have not with my own ears heard in familiar 
use. In the metrical portion of the book, I have endeavored to adapt the spelling 
as nearly as possible to the ordinary mode of pronunciation. Let the reader who 
deems me over-particular remember this caution of Martial : — 

*' Qiiem recitas, mens est, O Fidentine, libellus; 
Seel male cum recitas, incipit esse tuusJ'' 

A few farther explanatory remarks will not be impertinent. 

I shall barely lay down a few general rules for the reader's guidance. 

1. The genuine Yankee never gives the rough sound to the r when he can help 
it, and often displays considerable ingenuity in avoiding it even before a vowel. 

2. He seldom sounds the final g ; a piece of self-denial, if we consider his par- 
tialit}'- for nasals. The same of the final t7, as Tian'' and stari' for hand and stand. 

3. The h in such words as wliile^ when, where, he omits altogether. 

4. In regard to a, he shows some inconsistency ; sometimes giving a close and 
obscure sound, as hev for have, hendy for handy, ez for as, thet for that; and again 
giving it the broad sound it has in father, as hdnsome for handsome, 

5. To the sound ouhe prefixes an e (hard to exemplify otherwise than orally). 
The following passage in Shakspeare he would recite thus: — 

" Neow is the winta uv eour discontent 
Med glorious summa by this sun o' Yock ; 
An' all the cleouds thet leowered upun eour heouse 
In the deep buzzum o' the oshin buried. 
ITeow air eour hreows beound 'ith victorious wreaths ; 
Eour breused arms hung up fer monimunce ; 
Eour starn alarums changed to merry meetin's, 
Eour dreffle marches to delightful measures. 
Grim-visaged War heth smeuthed his wrinkled front; 
An' neow, instid o' mountiu' barebid steeds 
To fright the souls o' ferfle edverseries, 
He capers nimly in a lady's chamber 
To the lascivious pleasin' uv a loot." 

6. Au, in such words as daughter and slaughter, he pronounces ah. 

7. To the dish thus seasoned add a di-awl ad libitum. 

[Mr. Wilbur's notes here become entirely fragmentary. — C. N.] 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 93 

Ko. VIII. 
A SECOND LETTER FROM B. SAWIN, ESQ. 

[In the following epistle, we behold Mr. Sawin returning, a miles emeritus, to the 
bosom of his family. Quantum mutatus ! The good Father of us all had doubtless 
intrusted to the keeping of this child of his certain faculties of a constructive kind. 
He had put in him a share of that vital force, the nicest economy of every minute 
atom of which is necessary to the perfect development of humanity. He had given 
him a brain and heart, and so had equipped his soul with the two strong wings of 
knowledge and love, whereby it can mount to hang its nest under the eaves of 
heaven. And this child, so dowered, he had intrusted to the keeping of his vicar, 
the State. How stands the account of that stewardship ? The State or Society 
(call her by what name you will) had taken no manner of thought of him till she 
saw him swept out into the street, the pitiful leavings of last night's debauch, with 
cigar-ends, lemon-parings, tobacco-quids, slops, vile stenches, and the whole loath- 
some next-morning of the bar-room, — an own child of the Almighty God! I re- 
member him as he was brought to be christened, a ruddy, rugged babe : and now 
there he wallows, reeking, seething, — the dead corpse, not of a man, but of a soul; 
a putrefying lump, horrible for the life that is in it. Comes the wind of heaven, 
that Good Samaritan, and parts the hair upon his forehead, nor is too nice to kiss 
those parched, cracked lips ; the morning opens upon him her eyes full of pitying 
sunshine; the sky yearns down to him: and there he lies fermenting. Sleep !— let 
me not profane thy holy name by calling that stertoi-ous unconsciousness a slumber! 
By and by comes along the State, God's vicar. Does she say, " My poor, forlorn 
foster-child ! — behold here a force which I will make dig and plant and build for 
me I " Not so ; but, " Here is a recruit ready-made to my hand, a piece of destroying 
energy lying unprofitably idle." So she claps an ugly gray suit on him, puts a 
musket in his grasp, and sends him off, with gubernatorial and other godspeeds, to 
do duty as a destroyer. 

I made one of the crowd at the last Mechanics' Fair, and with the rest stood 
gazing in wonder at a perfect machine, with its soul of fire, its boiler-heart that 
sent the hot blood pulsing along the iron arteries, and its thews of steel. And 
while I was admiring the adaptation of means to end, the hannonious involutions 
of contrivance, and the never-bewildered complexity, I saw a grimed and greasy 
fellow, the imperious engine's lackey and drudge, whose sole office was to let fall at 
intervals a drop or two of oil upon a certain joint. Then my soul said within me, 
" See there a piece of mechanism to which that other you marvel at is but as the 
rude first effort of a child; a force which not merely suffices to set a few wheels 
in motion, but which can send an impulse all through the infinite future ; a con- 
trivance, not for turning out pins or stitching button-holes, but for making Hamlets 
and Lears. And yet this thing of iron shall be housed, waited on, guarded from 
rust and dust, and it shall be a crime but so much as to scratch it with a pin ; while 
the other, with its fire of God in it, shall be buffeted hither and thither, and finally 
sent carefully a thousand miles to be the target for a Mexican cannon-ball. Un- 
thrifty Mother State I " ]\Iy heart burned within me for pity and indignation, and I 
renewed this covenant with my own soul : In aliis mansuetus ero, at, in blasphemiis 
contra Oit-istum, non ita. — H. W.] 



94 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

I s'POSE you wonder ware I be ; I can't tell, fer the soul o' me, 

Exacly ware I be myself, — meanin' by tbet the holl o' me. 

Wen I left hum, I hed two legs, an' they worn't bad ones neither, 

(The scaliest trick they ever played wuz bringin' on me hither,) 

Now one on 'em's I dunno ware ; — they thought I wuz adyin'. 

An' sawed it off because they said 'twuz kin' o' mortifyin' : 

I'm willin' to believe it wuz, an' yit I don't see, nuther, 

Wy one should take to feelin' cheap a minnit sooner 'n t'other, 

Sence both wuz equilly to blame ; but things is ez they be. 

It took on so they took it off, an' thet's enough fer me ; 

There's one good thing, though, to be said about my wooden new one, — 

The liquor can't git into it ez't used to in the true one ; 

So it saves drink ; an' then, besides, a feller couldn't beg 

A gretter blessin' then to hev one oilers sober peg ; 

It's true a chap's in want o' two fer follerin' a drum. 

But all the march I'm up to now is jest to Kingdom Come. 

I've lost one eye, but thet's a loss it's easy to supply 

Out o' the glory thet I've gut, fer thet is all my eye ; 

An' one is big enough, I guess, by diligently usin' it, 

To see all I shall ever git by way o' pay fer losin' it. 

Off 'cers, I notice, who git paid fer all our thumps an' kickin's, 

Dii wal by keepin' single eyes arter the fattest pickin's ; 

So, ez the eye's put fairly out, I'll larn to go without it. 

An' not allow myself to be no gret put out about it. 

Now, le' me see, thet isn't all ; I used, 'fore leavin' Jaalara, 

To count things on my finger-eends, but sutthin' seems to ail 'em : 

Ware's my left hand ? oh ! darn it, yes, I recollect wut's come on't ; 

I hain't no left arm but my right, an' thet's gut jest a thumb on't; 

It ain't so hendy ez it wuz to cal'late a sum on't. 

I've hed some ribs broke, — six (I b'lieve), — I hain't kep no account on 

'em : 
Wen pensions git to be the talk, I'll settle the amount on *em. 
An' now I'm speakin' about ribs, it kin' o' brings to mind 
One thet I couldn't never break, — the one I lef behind ; 
Ef you should see her, jest clear out the spout o' your invention, 
An' pour the longest sweetnin' in about an annooal pension. 
An' kin' o' hint (in case, you know, the critter should refuse to be 
Consoled) I ain't so 'xpensive now to keep ez wut I used to be ; 
There's one arm less, ditto one eye, an' then the leg thet's wooden 
Can be took off an' sot away wenever ther' 's a puddin'. 

I s'pose you think I'm comin' back ez opperlunt ez thunder. 

With shiploads o' gold images an' varus sorts o' plunder : 

Wal, 'fore I vullinteered, I thought this country wuz a sort o' 

Canaan, a reg'lar Promised Land, flowin' with rum an' water, 

Ware propaty growed up like time, without no cultivation, 

An' gold wuz dug ez taters be among our Yankee nation ; 

Ware nateral advantages were pufficly amazin' ; 

Ware every rock there wuz about with precious stuns wuz blazin' ; 

Ware mill-sites filled the country up ez thick ez you could cram 'em. 

An' desput rivers run about abeggin' folks to dam 'em ; 



JAMES KUSSELL LOWELL. 95 

Then there were meetinhouses, tu, chockful o' gold an' silver, 

Thet you could take, an' no one couldn't hand ye in no bill fer, — 

Thet's wut I thought afore I went, thet's wut them fellers told us 

Thet stayed to hum an' speechified an' to the buzzards sold us ; 

I thought thet gold mines could be gut cheaper than china-asters, 

An' see myself acomin' back like sixty Jacob Astors ; 

But sech idees soon melted down an' didn't leave a grease-spot ; 

I vow my hoU sheer o' the spiles wouldn't come nigh a V spot. 

Although most anywares we've ben, you needn't break no locks, 

Nor run no kin' o risks to fill your pocket full o' rocks. 

I guess I mentioned in my last some o' the nateral feeturs 

0' this all-fiered buggy hole in th' way o' awfle creeturs ; 

But I fergut to name (new things to speak on so abounded) 

How one day you'll most die o' thust, an' 'fore the next git drownded. 

The clymit seems to me jest like a teapot made o' pewter 

Our Prudence bed, thet wouldn't pour (all she could du) to suit her : 

Fust place the leaves 'ould choke the spout, so 's not a drop 'ould dreen out, 

Then Prude 'ould tip an' tip an' tip, till the holl kit bust clean out ; 

The kiver-hinge-pin bein' lost, tea-leaves an' tea, an' kiver 

'ould all come down kerswosh ! ez though the dam broke in a river. 

Jest so 'tis here ; holl months there aint a day o' rainy weather, 

An' jest ez th' officers 'ould be alayin' heads together 

Ez t' how they'd mix their drink at sech a milingtary deepot, — 

'T 'ould pour ez though the lid wuz olF the everlastin' teapot. 

The cons'quence is, thet I shall take, wen I'm allowed to leave here. 

One piece o' propaty along, — an' thet's the shakin' fever ; 

It's reggilar employment, though, an' thet aint thought to harm one, 

Nor 't aint so tiresome ez it wuz with t'other leg an' arm on ; 

An' it's a consolation tu, although it doosn't pay. 

To hev it said you're some gret shakes in any kin' o' way. 

'T worn't very long, I tell ye wut, I thought o' fortin-makin, — 

One day a reg'lar shiver-de-freeze, an' next ez good ez bakin', — 

One day abrilin' in the sand, then smoth'rin' in the mashes, — 

Git up all sound, be put to bed a mess o' hacks an' smashes. 

But then, thinks I, at any rate there's glory to be hed, — 

Thet's an investment, arter all, thet mayn't turn out so bad ; 

But somehow, wen we'd fit an' licked, I oilers found the thanks 

Gut kin' o' lodged afore they come ez low down ez the ranks. 

The Gin'rals gut the biggest sheer, the Cunnles next, an' so on, — 

We never gut a blasted mite o' glory ez I know on ; 

An', spose we hed, I wonder how you're goin' to contrive its 

Division so's to give a piece to twenty thousand privits. 

Ef you should multiply by ten the portion o' the brav'st one, 

You wouldn't git mor'n half enough to speak of on a grave-stun ; 

We git the licks, — we're jest the grist thet's put into War's hoppers; 

Leftenants is the lowest grade thet helps pick up the coppers. 

It may suit folks thet go agin a body with a soul in't. 

An' aint contented with a hide without a bagnet hole in't ; 

But glory is a kin' o' thing / shan't pursue no furder, 

Coz thet's the ofPcers parquisite, — yourn's on'y jest the murder. 

Wal, arter I gin glory up, thinks I at least there's one 

Thing in the bills we aint hed yit, an' thet's the glorious fun; 



96 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Ef once we git to Mexico, we fairly may persurae we 

All day an' night shall revel in the halls o' Montezuray. 

I'll tell ye wut my revels wuz, an' see how you would like 'em : 

We never gut inside the hall ; the nighest ever / come 

Wuz stan'in sentry in the sun (an', fact, it seemed a cent'ry) 

A ketchin' smells o' biled an' roast thet come ont thru the entry, 

An' hearin', ez I sweltered thru my passes an' repasses, 

A rat-tat-too o' knives an' forks, a clinkty-clink o' glasses. 

I can't tell off the bill o' fare the Gin'rals hed inside ; 

All I know is, thet out o' doors a pair o' soles wuz fried, 

An', not a hunderd miles away frum ware this child wuz posted, 

A Massachusetts citizen wuz baked an' biled an' roasted : 

The on'y thing like revellin' thet ever come to me 

Wuz bein' routed out o' sleep by thet darned revelee. 

They say the quarrel's settled now ; fer my part I've some doubt on't ; 

'T '11 take more fish-skin than folks think to take the rile clean out on't ; 

At any rate, I'm so used up I can't do no more fightin', 

The on'y chance thet's left to me is politics or writin'. 

Now, ez the people's gut to hev a milingtary man. 

An' I aint nothin' else jest now, I've hit upon a plan ; 

The can'idatin' line, you know, 'ould suit me to a T, 

An', ef I lose, 't wunt hurt my ears to lodge another flea : 

So I'll set up ez can'idate fer any kin' o' office, 

(I mean fer any thet includes good easy-cheers an' soffies ; 

Fer ez to runnin' fer a place ware work's the time o'day, 

You know thet's wut I never did, — except the other way ;) 

Ef it's the Presidential cheer fer wicli I'd better run, 

Wut two legs any wares about could keep up with my one ? 

There aint no kin' o' quality in can'idates, it's said. 

So useful ez a wooden leg, — except a wooden head ; 

There's nothin' aint so poppylar (wy, it's a parfect sin 

To think wut Mexico hez paid fer Santy Anny's pin) — 

Then I hain't gut no principles, an', sence I wuz knee-high, 

I never did hev any gret, ez you can testify ; 

I'm a decided peace-man tu, an' go agin the war, — 

Fer now the holl on't 's gone an' past, wut is there Jto go/or ? 

Ef, wile you're 'lectioneerin' round, some curus chaps should beg 

To know my views o' State affairs, jest answer, " Wooden leg I '* 

Ef they aint settisfied Avith thet, an' kin' o' pry an' doubt 

An' ax' fer sutthin' deifynit, jest say, " One eye put out ! " 

Thet kin' o' talk I guess you'll fincl'll answer to a charm. 

An', wen you're druv tu nigh the wall, hoi' up my missin' arm ; 

Ef they should nose round fer a pledge, put on a vartoous look, 

An' tell 'em thet's percisely wut I never gin nor — took ! 

Then you can call me " Timbertoes ; " thet's wut the people likes, — 

Sutthin' combinin' morril truth with phrases sech ez strikes ; 

Some say the people's fond o' this, or thet, or wut you please : 

I tell ye wut the people want is jest correct idees. 

" Old Timbertoes," you see, 's a creed it's safe to be quite bold on, 

There's nothin' in't the other side can any ways git hold on ; 

It's a good tangible idee, a sutthin to embody 

Thet valooable class o' men who look tliru brandy-toddy ; 



JAMES EUSSELL LOWELL. 97 

It gives a Party Platform tu, jest level -with the mind 

Of all right-tliinkiii', honest folks thet mean to go it blind. 

Then there air other good hooraws to dror on ez you need 'em ; 

Sech ez the Oxe-Eyed Slakterer, the Bloody Birdofredum : 

Them's wut takes hold o' folks thet think, ez well ez o' the masses, 

An' makes you sartin o' the aid o' good men of all classes. 

There's one thing I'm in doubt about ; in order to be Presidunt, 

It's absolutely ne'ssary to be a Southern residunt ; ' 

The Constitution settles thet, an' also thet a feller 

Must own a nigger o' some sort, jet-black, or brown, or yeller. 

Now, I hain't no objections agin particklar climes. 

Nor agin ownin anythin' (except the truth sometimes) ; 

But ez I hain't no capital, up there among ye, maybe, 

You might raise funds enough fer me to buy a low-priced baby ; 

An' then, to suit the No'thern folks, who feel obleeged to say 

They hate an' cuss the very thing they vote fer every day, 

Say you're assured I go full butt fer Libbaty's diffusion, 

An' made the purchis on'y jest to spite the Institootion. 

But golly ! there's the currier's hoss upon the pavement pawin' ! 

I'll be more 'xplicit in my next. 

Yourn, 

BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN. 

We liave now a tolerably fair chance of estimating how the balance-sheet stands 
between our returned volunteer and glory. Supposing the entries to be set down 
on both sides of the account in fractional parts of one hundred, we shall arrive at 
something like the following result : — 

Cr. B. Sawin, Esq., in account with (Blank") Glory. Dr. 

By loss of one leg . . . .20 To one 675th three cheers in Faneuil 

do. one arm . . . .15 Hall 30 

do. four fingers . . . 5 „ do. do. on 

do. one eye . . . .10 occasion of presentation of sword 

the breaking'of six ribs . . 6 to Colonel Wright . . .25 

having served under Colonel Cush- „ one suit of gray clothes (inge- 

ing one mouth . . . .44 niously unbecoming) . . 15 

„ musical entertainments (drum 

and fife six months) . . 5 

„ one dinner after return . . 1 

„ chance of pension . . .1 

„ privilege of drawing longbow 

during rest of natural life . 23 

E. E. 100 100 

It would appear that Mr. Sawin found the actual feast curiously the reverse of 
the bill of fare advertised in Faneuil Hall and other places. His primary object 
seems to have been the making of his fortune. Qucerenda pecunia primum, virtus 
post nummos. He hoisted sail for Eldorado, and shipwrecked on Point Tribulation. 
Quid non mortalia pectora cor/is, auri sacra fames f The speculation has sometimes 
crossed my mind, in that dreary interval of drought which intervenes between quar- 
terly stipendiary showers, that Providence, by the creation of a money-tree, might 
have simplified wonderfully the sometimes perplexing problem of human life. We 
read of bread-trees, the butter for which lies ready churned in Irish bogs. Milk-trees 
we are assured of in South America; and stout Sir John Hawkins testifies to water- 
? 



98 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

trees in the Canaries. Boot-trees bear abundantly in Lynn and elsewhere; and I 
have seen, in the entries of the wealthy, hat-trees Avith a fair show of fruit. A family- 
tree I once cultivated myself, and found therefrom but a scanty yield, and that quite 
tasteless and innutritions. Of trees bearing men we are not without examples ; as 
those in the park of Louis the Eleventh of France. Who has forgotten, moreover, 
that olive-tree, growing in the Athenian's back-garden, with its strange uxorious 
crop, for the general propagation of which, as of a new and precious variety, the 
philosopher Diogenes, hitherto tinmterested in arboriculture, was so zealous ? In 
the sylva of our own Southern States, the females of my family have called my 
attention to the china-tree. Not to multiply examples, I will barely add to my list 
the birch-tree, in the smaller branches of Avhich has been implanted so miraculous a 
virtue for communicating the Latin and Greek languages, and which may well, 
therefore, be classed among the trees producing necessaries of life, — venerabile, 
donum fatalis virgoe. That money-trees existed in the golden age, there want not 
prevalent reasons for our believing; fordoes not the old proverb, when it asserts 
that money does not grow on every bush, imply, a fortiori, that there Avere certain 
bushes which did produce it? Again: there is another ancient saw to the effect 
that money is the root of all evil. From Avhich two adages it may be safe to infer 
that the aforesaid species of tree first degenerated into a shrub, then absconded 
underground, and finally, in our iron age, vanished altogether. In favorable expo- 
sures, it may be conjectured that a specimen or two survived to a great age, as fh the 
garden of the Hesperides; and indeed Avhat else could that tree in the Sixth ^neid 
have been, with a branch whereof the Trojan hero procured admission to a territory 
for the entering of Avhich money is a surer passport than to a certain other more 
profitable (too) foreign kingdom? Whether these speculations of mine have any 
force in them, or whether they Avill not rather, by most readers, be deemed imperti- 
nent to the matter in hand, is a question Avhich I leave to the determination of an 
indulgent posterity. That there were in more primitive and happier times shops 
where money was sold, — and that, too, on ci-edit and at a bargain, — I take to be 
matter of demonstration. For what but a dealer in this article Avas that ^olus Avho 
supplied Ulysses Avith raotiA^e poAver for his fleet in bags ? Avhat that Ericus, King 
of Sweden, Avho is said to have kept the Avinds in his cap ? Avhat, in more recent 
times, those Lapland Nomas Avho traded in favorable breezes? — all which Avill 
appear the more clearly Avhen we consider, that, even to this day, raising the loind 
is proverbial for raising money, and that brokers and banks Avere inA'ented by the 
Venetians at a later period. 

And noAV for the improvement of this digression. I find a parallel to Mr. SaAvin's 
fortune in an adventure of my own ; for, shortly after 1 had first broached to myself 
the before-stated natural-historical and archaeological theories, as I Avas passing, 
JicBC negotia penitus mecum revolvens, through one of the obscure suburbs of our Ncav- 
England metropolis, my eye was attracted by these words upon a sign-boai-d: 
Cheap Cash-Stoee. Here Avas at once the confirmation of my speculations and 
the substance of my hopes. Here lingered the fi-agment of a happier past, or 
stretched out the first tremulous organic filament of a more fortunate future. Thus 
glowed the distant Mexico to the eyes of SaAvin as he looked through the dirty 
pane of the recruiting-office AvindoAv, or speculated from the summit of that 
mirage-Pisgah Avhich the imps of the bottle are so cunning in raising up. Already 
had my Alnaschar fancy (even during that first half-belicA^ing glance) expended in 
various useful directions the funds to be obtained by pledging the manuscript of a 
proposed volume of discourses. Already did a clock ornament the tower of the 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 99 

Jaalam meeting-house, — a gift appropriately but modestly commemorated in the 
parish and town records; both, for now many years, kept by myself. Already had 
my son Seneca completed his course at the university. Whether, for the moment, 
we may not be considered as actually lording it over those Bamtarias with the 
viceroyaltj' of which Hope invests us, and whether we are ever so warmly housed 
as in our Spanish castles, would afford matter of argument. Enough that I found 
that sign-board to be no other than a bait to the trap of a decayed grocer. Never- 
theless, I bought a pound of dates (getting short weight by reason of immense 
flights of harpy flies who pursued and lighted upon their prey even in the very- 
scales); which purchase I made not only vrith an eye to the little ones at home, 
but also as a figurative reproof of that too-frequent habit of my mind, which, forget- 
ting the due order of chronolog}", will often persuade me that the happy scepter 
of Saturn is stretched over this Astrrea-forsaken nineteenth century. 

Having glanced at the ledger of Glory under the title Sawin, 5., let us extend 
our investigations, and discover if that instructive volume does not contain some 
charges more personally interesting to ourselves. I think we should be more eco- 
nomical of our resources, did we thoroughly appreciate the fact, that, whenever 
Brother Jonathan seems to be thnasting his hand into his own pocket, he is, in fact, 
picking ours. I confess that the late much which the country has been running has 
materially changed my views as to the best method of raising revenue. If, by 
means of direct taxation, the bills for every extraordinary outlay w^ere brought 
under our immediate eye, so that, like thrifty housekeepers, we could see where 
and how fast the money was going, we should be less likely to commit extrava- 
gances. At present, these things are managed in such a hugger-mugger way, 
that we know not what we pay for ; the poor man is charged as much as the rich ; 
and, while we are saving and scrimping at the spigot, the government is drawing 
off at the bung. If we could know that a part of the nioney we expend for tea and 
coffee goes to buy powder and balls, and that it is ^lexican blood which makes the 
clothes on our backs more costly, it would set some of us a-thinking. During the 
present fall, I have often pictured to myself a government official entering my study, 
and handing me the following bill : — 

Washington, Sept. 30, 1848. 
Eev. Homer Wilbur to Uncle Samuel, Dr. 

To his share of work done in Mexico on partnership account, sundry jobs, as 

below : — 
„ killing, maiming, and wounding about 5,000 Mexicans .... $2.00 

„ slaughtering one woman carrying water to wounded 10 

„ extra work on two different sabbaths (one bombardment and one assault), 
whereby the Mexicans w^ere prevented from defiling themselves with 

the idolatries of high mass . « 3.50 

„ throwing an especially fortunate and Protestant bombshell into the Cathe- 
dral at Vera Cruz, whereby sevei-al female Papists were slain at the 

altar. 50 

„ his proportion of cash paid for conquered territory 1.75 

„ do. do. for conquering do. 1.50 

„ manuring do. with new superior compost called " American Citizen " . .50 
„ extending the area of Freedom and Protestantism . . . . . .01 

„ glory J^ 

$9.87 

Immediate payment is requested. 

N. B. — Thankful for former favors, U. S. requests a continuance of patronage. 
Orders executed with neatness and dispatch. Terms as low as those of any other 
contractor for the same kind and style of work. 



100 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

I can fancy the official answering my look of horror with, " Yes, sir; it looks 
like a high charge, sir: but, in these days, slaughtering is slaughtering." Verily, I 
would that every one understood that it was; for it goes about obtaining money 
under the false pretence of being glor}''. For me, I have an imagination which plays 
me uncomfortable tricks. It happens to me sometimes to see a slaughterer on his 
way home from his day's work; and forthwith my imagination puts a cocked hat 
upon his head, and epaulets upon his shoulders, and sets him up as a candidate for 
the Presidency. So also, on a recent public occasion, as the place assigned to the 
"Reverend Clergy^' is just behind that of "Officers of the Array and Navy" in 
processions, it was my fortune to be seated at the dinner-table over against one of 
these respectable persons. He was arrayed as (out of his own profession) only 
kings, court-officers, and footmen are in Europe, and Indians in America. Now, 
what does my over-officious imagination but set to work upon him, strip him of his 
gay livery, and present him to me coatless, his trousers thrust into the tops of a 
pair of boots thick with clotted blood, and a basket on his arm out of which lolled a 
gore-smeared axe, thereby destroying my relish for the temporal mercies upon the 
board before me ! h. w. 



EDQAE ALLAN POE. 

BoKN January, 1811, Baltimore, Md. 

A writer of undoubted poetical genius, but so prejudiced in his tastes, and so 
erratic in his life, that he left no fitting raommient of his power. ' " The Bells," 
'' Annabel Lee," and " The Raven," are his best-known pieces. He died in Balti- 
more, Oct. 7, 1849. 



TEE RAVEN* 

Once upon a midiiiglit dreary, while I jjondercd, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious vblume of forgotten lore, 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, — rapping at my chamber-door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, " tapping at my chamber-door, — 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah ! distinctly I remember : it was in the bleak December, 
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow : vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow, — sorrow for the lost Lenore ; 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore, — 
Nameless here for evermore. 

* This poem is justly celebrated as unique in its expi'ession, and unrivalled in the 
wild, weird fancy of its conception. 



EDGAR ALLAN POE. 101 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; 
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door, — 
Some late visitor entreatins: entrance at my chamber-door : 
This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger : hesitating then no longer, 
" Sir," said I, '" or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore : 
But the fact is, I was napping ; and so gently you came rapping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door. 
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door : 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before : 
But the silence Avas unbroken, and the stillness gave no token ; 
And the only word there spoken Avas the Avhispered Avord, " Lenore ! " 
This I Avhispered, and an echo murmured back the Avord, " Lenore ! " 
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul AAathin me burning. 
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before. 
" Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my AvindoAv-lattice : 
Let me see, then, Avhat thereat is, and this mystery explore ; 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. 

'Tis the Avind, and nothing more ! " 

Open here I flung the shutter; when, with many a flirt and flutter, 
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute stopped or staid he ; 
But, Avitli mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber-door; 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just abo\-e my chamber-door; 
Perched and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling 
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it Avore, 
" Tliough thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven, 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, Avandering from the nightly shore : 
Tell me Avhat thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore." 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its ansAver little meaning, little relevancy, bore ; 
For Ave can not help agreeing, that no living human being 
EA'er yet Avas blessed Avith seeing bird above his chamber-door — <? 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust aboA-e his chamber-door — 
With such name as " Nevermore." 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one Avord, as if his soul in that one Avord he did outpour. 
Nothing further then he uttered ; not a feather then he flattered ; 
Till I scarcely more than muttered, " Other friends have floAvn before : 
On the morroAV lie Avill leave me, as my hopes have floAvn before." 
Then the bird said, " Nevermore ! " 



102 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Startled at tlie stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 
" Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, -whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore, 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore 
Of ' Never, nevermore.' " 

But, the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling. 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and 

door; 
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore — 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore — 
Meant in croaking " Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core, — 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er. 
But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er, 
She shall press — ah, nevermore 1 

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer 

Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. 

" Wretch ! " I cried, " thy god hath lent thee, by these angels he hath 

sent thee 
Respite — respite and nepenthe — from thy memories of Lenore ! 
Quaff, oh ! quaflf this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil, — 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted. 
On this home by horror haunted, — tell me truly, I implore. 
Is there, is there, balm in Gilead? — tell me, tell me, I implore ! '* 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — prophet still, if bird or devil, — 
By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore, 
Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aiden 
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore, — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore ! " 
Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 

" Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstart- 
ing : 

" Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore ! 

Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! 

Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door ! 

Take thv beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my 
door!" 

Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore ! " 



WILLIS, HOLMES, SAXE, ETC. 103 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, 
On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above ray cliamber-door ; 
And bis eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor ; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor 
Shall be lilted — nevermore 1 



This volume is not intended to take the pkce*of a Dictionary of Authors, whose 
names alone would fill a _2;reater number of pages than can be given to the whole 
book; much less can it afford space for the exact enumeration of all the produc- 
tions of those mentioned. More extended notices of them and their works can be 
obtained by the pupil, as an excellent general exercise, from AUibone's " Diction- 
ary of Authors" and "The Encyclopsedia Americana;" copies of which works 
should be in every high-school library. To those who may be disappointed by not 
finding the name of a" favorite author in the contemporary lists, we can only say, 
our space could not include everybody Undoubtedly, among modern authors 
Avhose, places in our literature have not yet been fixed permanently by time and 
critics, some names of importance will have been ovei'looked: at the same time, it 
is believed, that having studied carefully the selections here given, and become 
acquainted Avith the authors and books refen-ed to in this volume, the pupil will 
have attended to the most important part of the literature of the language, and 
been successfully introduced to its curiosities, philological and historical. 

John Godfrey Saxe. — Born June 2, 1816, Highgate, Vt. The pun and fiin 
loving reader will find both in abundance in his two volumes of humorous and 
satirical poems. 

Theodore Tilton. — Editor of " The New^York Independent." A writer of 
great power and true poetic genius. One volume of poems. 

Fitz-Greene Halleck. — " Marco Bozzaris," and many other poems. 

James Gates Percival. — " Pi-ometheus," "The Dream of Day, and Other 
Poems." 

Richard H. Dana. — "The Buccaneer," " Poems and Prose "Writings," two 
volumes. 

John Pierpont. — " Airs of Palestine," volume of poems, and series of Eeaders. 

Joseph Hopkinson. — " Hail Columbia." 

Francis S. Key. — " Star-spangled Banner." 

John Howard Pay^ne. — " Home, Sweet Home." 

Samuel Woodworth. — "Old Oaken Bucket." 

Sarah Jane Clarke, " Grace Greenwood." now Mrs. S. J. Lippincott, has 
written several very popular volumes of prose and poetry, and books for children. 

Ly'dia Huntley Sigourney'-. — Called the ]\Irs. Hemans of America. 

Maria Brooks. — " Zophiel, or the Bride of Seven." 

Charles Fenno Hoffman. — " The Vigil of Faith." 

Other Americans who have written in verse of more or less poetical merit, 
nearly all of whom have published one or more volumes: — 

Park Benja:\iin. George P. ]\roRRis. 

Charles Sprague. Lucretia Maria Davidson. 

Julia Ward Howe. Mary S. B. Dana. 

Walt Whitman. Anna Pyre Dinnies. 

George Henry Boker. Mary E. Brooks. 

Elizabeth Howell. Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 

Amelia B. Welby. Caklos Wilcox. 



104 



EITGLISH LITEEATUKE. 



Makia White (Lowell). 
A. Cleveland Coxe. 
Lucy Hooper. 
Philip Pendleton Cook. 
Philip Fkeneau. 
John Trumbull, 
Joel Barlow. 
Samuel J. Smith. 
Grenville Mellen. 
James A. Hillhouse. 
Thomas McKellar. 
Jonathan Lawrence, 
James G. Brooks. 
Thomas Buchanan Read. 
James T, P'ields. 
Alice and Phgede Gary. 
Ralph Waldo Ejierson. 
Henry Theo. Tuckerman. 
Washington Allston. 
William H. BuRU<:iGn. 
Hannah F. Gould. 
Richard Henry Stoddard. 
Albert B. Stp^eet. 



William B. Tafpan. 
John G. C. Brainard. 
Isaac ]\IcLellan. 
George VV. Doane. 
Bayard Taylor. 
PiiiLLis Wheatley Peters. 
Albert Pike. 
William Gilmore Siminis. 
George Dennison Prentice. 
Willis Gaylord Clark. 
Edith ]\Lvy. 
Sarah Josepha Hale. 
Emjia C. Embury- 
Francis Sargent Osgood. 
Elizabeth M. Chandler. 
George W. Bethune. 
Edward C. Pinkney. 
Robert T. Conrad. 
Robert C. Sands. 
Joseph R, Drake. 
RuFus Dawes. 
William D. Gallagher. 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 

Born June 24, 1813, in Litchfield, Conn. 

Pastor of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, N.Y., since 1847. Author of several 
volumes, — "Letters to Young Men," "Star Papers, or Experiences of Art and 
Natm'e," and "Norwood," which first appeared in "The New- York Ledger," a 
healthy, vigorous presentation of New-England village-life. " Life-Thoughts, 
gathered from the Extemporaneous Discourses of Henry Ward Beecher," by Edna 
Dean Proctor, and "Notes from Plymouth Pulpit," by Augusta Moore, illus- 
trate well the freshness and richness of his style. Sincerely in love Avith Nature 
as well as with man, and untramraeled by traditions and dogmas, he speaks to his 
fellow-man Avith the eloquence of truth, with appreciative sympathy ; and is the 
most popular pulpit orator in America. 



THE MONTHS, 



1. January! Darkness and light reign alike. Snow is on 
the ground. Cold is in the air. The winter is blossoming in 
frost-flowers. Why is the ground hidden? Why is the earth 
white ? So hath G-od wiped out the past, so hath he spread the 
earth like an unwritten page for a new year ! Old sounds are 
silent in the forest and in the air. Insects are dead, birds are 
gone, leaves have perished, and all the foundations of soil remain. 
Upon this lies, white and tranquil, the emblem of newness and 
purity, the virgin robes of the yet unstained year. 



HENRY WAED BEECHER. 105 

2. Eebruaey ! The day gains upon the night. The strife of 
heat and cold is scarce begun. The winds that come from the 
desolate north wander through forests of frost-cracking boughs, 
and shout in the air the weird cries of the northern bergs and 
ice-resounding oceans. Yet, as the month wears on, the silent 
work begins, though storms rage. The earth is hidden yet, but 
not dead. The sun is drawing near. The storms cry out. But 
the Sun is not heard in all the heavens. Yet he whispers words 
of deliverance into the ears of every sleeping seed and root that 
lies beneath the snow. The day opens; but the night shuts the 
earth with its frost-lock. They strive together ; but the darkness 
and the cold are growing weaker. On some nights they forget 
to work. 

3. March ! The conflict is more turbulent ; but the victory is 
gained. The world awakes. There come voices from long-hid- 
den birds. The smell of the soil is in the air. The sullen ice, 
retreating from open field and all sunny places, has slunk to the 
north of every fence and rock. The knolls and banks that face 
the east or south sigh for release, and begin to lift up a thousand 
tiny palms. 

4. Apkil ! The singing month. Many voices of many birds 
call for resurrection over the graves of flowers, and thej?^ come 
forth. Go see what they have lost. What have ice and snow 
and storm done unto them ? How did they fall into the earth 
stripped and bare? — how do they come forth opening and glori- 
fied ? Is it, then, so fearful a thing to lie in the grave ? In its 
wild career, shaking and scourged of storms through its orbit, the 
earth has scattered away no treasures. The Hand that governs 
in April governed in January. You have not lost what God has 
only hidden. You lose nothing in struggle, in trial, in bitter 
distress. If called to shed thy joj^s as trees their leaves, if the 
affections be driven back into the heart as the life of flowers to 
their roots, yet be patient. Thou shalt lift up thy leaf-covered 
boughs again. Thou shalt shoot forth from thy roots new flowers. 
Be patient. Wait. When it is February, April is not far oft'. 
Secretly the plants love each other. 

5. May ! flower-month ! perfect the harvests of flowers ; be 
not niggardly. Search out the cold and resentful nooks that 
refused the sun, casting back its rays from disdainful ice, and plant 
flowers even there. There is goodness in the worst. There is 
warmth in the coldness. The silent, hopeful, unbreathing sun, 
that will not fret or despond, but carries a placid brow through 
the un wrinkled heavens, at length conquers the very rocks ; and 
licliens grow, and inconspicuously blossom. What shall not Time 
do that carries in its bosom Love ? 

6. June ! Eest ! This is the year's bower. Sit down within 



106 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

it. Wipe from thj^ brow the toil. The elements are thy servants. 
The dews bring thee jewels. The winds bring perfume. The 
Earth shows thee all her treasure. The forests sing to thee. The 
air is all sweetness, as if all the angels of God had gone through 
it, bearing spices homeward. The storms are but as flocks of 
mighty birds that spread their wings, and sing in the high heaven. 
Speak to God now, and say, "0 Father! where art thou? " and 
out of every flower and tree, and silver pool, and twined thicket, 
a voice will come, " God is in me." The earth cries to the 
heavens, " God is here ! " and the heavens cry to the earth, 
" God is here ! " The sea claims him. The land hath him. His 
footsteps are upon the deep. He sitteth upon the circle of the 
earth. sunny joys of the sunny month, yet soft and temper- 
ate, how soon will the eager months that come burning from the 
equator scorch you ! 

7. July ! Eouse up ! The temperate heats that filled the air 
are raging forward to glow and overfill the earth with hotness. 
Must it be thus in every thing, that June shall rush toward Au- 
gust ? Or is it not that there are deep and unreached places for 
whose sake the probing sun pierces down its glowing hands ? 
There is a deeper work than June can perform. The Earth shall 
drink of the heat before she knows her nature or her strength. 
Then shall she bring forth to the uttermost the treasures of her 
bosom ; for there are things hidden far down, and the deep things 
of life are not known till the fire reveals them. 

8. August ! Reign, thou fire-month ! What canst thou do ? 
Neither shalt tliou destroy the earth, whom frosts and ice could 
not destroy. The vines droop, the trees stagger, the broad-palmed 
leaves give thee their moisture, and hang down 5 but every night 
the dew pities them. Yet there are flowers that look thee in the 
eye, fierce Sun, all day long, and wink not. This is the rejoicing 
month for joyfid insects. If our unselfish eye would behold it, it 
is the most populous and the happiest month. Tlie herds plash 
in the sedge ; fish seek the deeper pools ; forest fowl lead out 
their young; the air is resonant of insect orchestras, each one 
carrying his part in Nature's grand harmony. August, thou art 
the ripeness of the year! Thou art the glowing center of the 
circle ! 

9. September ! There are thoughts in thy heart of death. 
Thou art doing a secret work, and heaping up treasures for an- 
other year. The unborn infant-buds which thou art tending are 
more than all the living leaves. Thy robes are luxuriant, but 
worn with softened pride. More dear, less beautiful, than June, 
thou art the heart's month. Not till the heats of summer are 
gone, while all its growths remain, do we know tlie fullness of life. 
Thy hands are stretched out, and clasp the glowing palm of Au- 



HEI^RY WARD BEECHER. 107 

gust and the fruit-smelling hand of October. Thou dividest 
them asunder, and art thyself molded of them both. 

10. October ! Orchard of the year, bend thy boughs to the 
earth, redolent of glowing fruit ! Bipened seeds shake in their 
pods. Apples drop in the stillest hours. Leaves begin to let go 
\Vhen no wind is out, and swing in long waverings to the earth, 
which they touch without "sound, and lie looking up, till winds 
rake them, and heap them in fence-corners. When the gales 
come through the trees, the yellow leaves trail like sparks at 
night behind the flying engine. The woods are thinner, so that 
we can see the heavens plainer as we lie dreaming on the yet 
warm moss by the singing spring. The days are calm. The 
nights are tranquil. The Year's work is done. She walks in gor- 
geous apparel, looking upon her long labor ; and her serene eye 
saith, " It is good." 

11. November ! Patient watcher, thou art asking to lay down 
thy tasks. Life to thee now is only a task accomplished. In 
the night-time thou liest down, and the messengers of winter deck 
thee with hoar-frosts for thy burial. The morning looks upon thy 
jewels, and they perish while it gazes. Wilt thou not come, 
December ? 

12. December ! Silently the month advances. There is noth- 
ing to destroy, but much to bury. Bury, then, thou snow, that 
slumberously fallest through the still air, the hedge-rows of leaves ! 
Muffle thy cold wool about the feet of shivering trees ! Bury all 
that the year hath known ! and let thy brilliant stars, that never 
shine as they do in thy frostiest nights, behold the work ! But 
know, month of destruction ! that in thy constellation is set that 
Star, whose rising is the sign, for evermore, that there is life in 
death. Thou art the month of resurrection. In thee the Christ 
came. Every star that looks down upon thy labor and toil of 
burial knows that all things shall come forth again. Storms 
shall sob themselves to sleep. Silence shall find a voice. Death 
shall live ; Life shall rejoice ; Winter shall break forth, and blos- 
som into Spring ; Spring shall put on her glorious apparel, and be 
called Summer. It is life, it is life, through the whole year ! 



A DTSCOURSE OF FLOWERS. 

Happy is the man that loves flowers ! — happy, even if it be a 
love adulterated with vanity and strife ; for human passions 
nestle in flower-lovers too. Some employ their zeal chiefly in 
horticultural competitions, or in the ambition of floral shows. 
Others love flowers as curiosities, and search for novelties, for 
" sports," and vegetable monstrosities. We have been led through 



108 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

costly collections by men whose chief pleasure seemed to he in the 
effect which their treasures produced on others, not on themselves. 
Their love of flowers was only the love of being praised for hav- 
ing them. But there is a choice in vanities and ostentations. A 
contest of roses is better than of horses. We had rather be vain 
of the best tulip, dahlia, or ranunculus, than of the best shot. Of 
all fools, a floral fool deserves the eminence. 

But, these aside, blessed be the man that really loves flowers ! 
— loves them for their own sakes, for their beauty, their associa- 
tions, the jo}^ they have given and always will give ; so that he 
would sit down among them as friends and companions, if there 
was not another creature on earth to admire or praise them. But 
such men need no blessing of mine: they are blessed of God. 
Did he not make the world for such men ? Are they not clearly 
the owners of the world, and the richest of all men ? 

It is the end of Art to inoculate men with the love of Nature. 
But those who have a passion for Nature in the natural way need 
no pictures nor galleries. Spring is their designer, and the whole 
year their artist. 

He who only does not appreciate floral beauty is to be pitied 
like any other man who is born imperfect. It is a misfortune not 
unlike blindness. But men who contemptuously reject flowers as 
effeminate, and unworthy of manhood, reveal a certain coarseness. 
Were flowers fit to eat or drink, were they stimulative of passions, 
or could they be gambled with like stocks and public consciences, 
they would take them up just where finer minds would drop them, 
who love them as revelations of God's sense of beauty, as ad- 
dressed to the taste, and to something finer and deeper than 
taste, — to that power within us which spiritualizes matter, and 
communes with God through his work, and not for their paltry 
market-value. 

Many persons lose all enjoyment of many flowers by indulging 
false associations. Tliere be some who think that no tueed can be 
of interest as a flower. But all flowers are weeds where they 
grow wildly and abundantly ; and somewhere our rarest flowers 
are somebody's commonest. Flowers growing in noisome places, 
in desolate corners, upon rubbish, or rank desolation, become dis- 
agreeable by association. Roadside flowers, ineradicable, and hardy 
beyond all discouragement, lose themselves from our sense of deli- 
cacy and protection. And, generally, there is a disposition to 
undervalue comvion flowers. There are few that will trouble 
themselves to examine minutely a blossom that they have seen 
and neglected from their childhood; and yet, if they would but 
question such flowers, and commune with them, they would often 
be surprised to find extreme beauty where it had long been over- 
looked. 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 109 

If a plant be uncouth, it has no attractions to us simply because 
it has been brought from the ends of the earth, and is a " great 
rarity ; " if it has beauty, it is none the less, but a great deal 
more attractive to us because it is common. A very common 
flower adds generosity to beauty. It gives joy to the poor, the 
rude, and to the multitudes who could have no flowers were Na- 
ture to charge a price for her blossoms. Is a cloud less beautiful, 
or a sea, or a mountain, because often seen, or seen by millions ? 

At any rate, while we lose no fondness for eminent and accom- 
plished flowers, we are conscious of a growing respect for the floral 
democratic throng. There is, for instance, the mullein, of but 
little beauty in each floweret, but a brave plant, growing cheer- 
fully and heartily out of abandoned soils, ruffling its root about 
with broad-palmed, generous, velvet leaves, and erecting there- 
from a towering spire that always inclines'us to stop for a kindly 
look. This fine plant is left by most people, like a decayed old 
gentleman, to a good-natured pity ; but in other countries it is a 
fioivar, and called the "American velvet-plant." 

We confess to a homely enthusiasm for clover, — not the white 
clover, beloved of honey-bees, but the red clover. It holds up 
its round, ruddy face and honest head with such rustic innocence ! 
Do you ever see it without thinking of a sound, sensible, country 
lass, sun-browned and fearless, as innocence always should be ? 
We go through a field of red clover like Solomon in a garden of 
spices. 

There is the burdock too, with its prickly rosettes, that has 
little beauty or value except (like some kind, brown, good-natured 
nurses) as an amusement to cliildren, who manufacture baskets, 
houses, and various marvelous utensils, of its burrs. The thistle 
is a prince. Let any man that has an eye for beauty take a view 
of the whole plant, and where will he see more expressive grace 
and symmetry? and where is there a more kingly flower? To 
be sure, there are sharp objections to it in a bouquet. Neither is 
it a safe neighbor to the farm, having a habit of scattering its 
seeds like a very heretic. But most gardeners feel toward a this- 
tle as boys toward a snake; and farmers, with more reason, dread 
it like a plague. But it is just as beautiful as if it were a univer- 
sal favorite. 

What shall we say of mayweed, irreverently called dog-fennel 
by some ? Its acrid juice, its heavy, j^ungent odor, make it dis- 
agreeable ; and, being disagreeable, its enormous Malthusian 
propensities to increase render it hateful to damsels of white 
stockings, compelled to walk through it on dewy mornings. 
Arise, O scythe ! and devour it. 

The buttercup is a flower of our childhood, and very brilliant 
in our eyes. Its strong color, seen afar off, often provoked its 



110 ENGLISH, LITERATUEE. 

fate ; for tlirougli tlie mowing-lot we went after it, regardless of 
orchard- grass and herd-grass, plucking down its long slendei 
stems crowned with golden chalices, until the father, covetous of 
hay, shouted to us, "Out of that grass, out of that grass, you 
rogue ! " 

The first thing that defies the frost in spring is the chickweed. 
It will open its floral eye, and look the thermometer in the face 
at thirty-two degrees. It leads out the snowdrop and crocus. 
Its blossom is diminutive : and no wonder ; for it begins so early 
in the season, that it has little time to make much of itself But, 
as a harbinger and herald, let it not be forgotten. 

You can not forget, if you would, those golden kisses all over 
the cheeks of the meadow, queerly called daiidellons. There are 
many greenhouse-blossoms less pleasing to us than these ; and 
we have reached through many a fence since we were incarcerat- 
ed, like them, in a city, to pluck one of these yellow flower- 
drops. Their passing-away, is more spiritual than their bloom. 
Nothing can be more airy and beautiful than the transparent 
seed-globe, — a fairy dome of splendid architecture. 

As for marigolds, poppies, hollyhocks, and valorous sunflowers, 
we shall never have a garden v/ithout them, both for their own 
sake, and for the sake of old-fashioned folks who used to love 
them. Morning-glories, or, to call them by their city name, 
the convolvulus, need no praising: the vine, the leaf, the 
exquisite vase-formed flower, the delicate and various colors, will 
secure it from neglect while taste remains. Grape-blossoms and 
mignonnette do not appeal to the eye ; and, if they were selfish, no 
man would care for them. Yet, because tlie}^ pour their life out 
in fragrance, they are always loved ; and, like homely people with 
noble hearts, they seem beautiful by association. Nothing that 
produces constant pleasure in us can fail to seem beautiful. We 
do not need to speak for that universal favorite, the rose. As a 
flower is the finest stroke of creation, so the rose is the happiest 
hit among flowers. Yet, in the feast of ever-blooming roses and 
of double roses, we are in danger of being perverted from a love 
of simplicity as manifested in the wild, single rose. When a 
man can look upon the simple wild-rose, and feel no pleasure, his 
taste has been corrupted. 

But we must not neglect the blossoms of fruit-trees. What a 
great heart an apple-tree must have ! What generous work it 
makes of blossoming ! It is not content with a single bloom for 
each apple that is to be ; but a profusion, a prodigality of blossom 
there must be. The tree is but a huge bouquet : it gives jow. 
twentj^ times as much as there is need for, and evidently because 
it loves to blossom. We will praise this virtuous tree, — not 
beautiful in form, often clumpy, cragged, and rude ; but it is glo- 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. Ill 

rious in beauty when efflorescent. Nor is it a beauty only at a 
distance and in the mass. Pluck down a twig, and examine as 
closely as you will : it will bear the nearest looking. The sim- 
plicity and purity of the white expanded flower, the half-open 
buds slightly blushed, the little i)ink- tipped buds unopen, crowd- 
ing up together like rosy children around an elder brother or 
sister, — can any thing surpass it ? Why, here is a cluster more 
beautiful than any you can make up artiliciall}^, even if joii select 
from the whole garden. Wear this family of buds for my sake. 
It is all the better for being common. I love a flower that all 
may have, — that belongs to the whole, and not to a select and 
exclusive few. Common, forsooth ! A flower can not be worn out 
by much looking at as a road is by much travel. 

How one exliales, and feels his childhood coming back to him, 
when, emerging from the hard and hateful city-streets, he sees 
orchards and gardens in sheeted bloom, — plum, cherry, pear, 
peachj and apple, waves and billows of blossoms rolling over the 
hillsides, and down through the levels! My heart runs riot. 
This is a kiugdom of glory. The bees know it. Are the blos- 
soms singing ? or is all this humming sound the music of bees ? 
The frivolous flies, that never seem to be thinking of any thing, 
are rather sober and solemn here. Such a sight is equal to a 
sunset, which is but a blossoming of the clouds. 

We love to fancy that a flower is the point of transition at 
which a material thing touches the immaterial : it is the sentient, 
vegetable soul. We ascribe dispositions to it ; we treat it as we 
would an innocent child. A stem or root has no suggestion of 
life. A leaf advances toward it ; and some leaves are as fine as 
flowers, and have, moreover, a grace of motion seldom had by 
flowers. Flowers have an expression of countenance as much 
as men or animals. Some seem to smile 5 som.e have a sad ex- 
pression ; some are pensive and diffident ; others again are plain, 
honest, and upright, like the broad-faced sunflower and the holl}?"- 
hock. We find ourselves speaking of them as laughing, as gay 
and coquettish, as nodding and dancing. No man of sensibility 
ever spoke of a flower as he would of a fungus, a pebble, or a 
sponge. Indeed, they are more life-like than many animals. 
We commune with flowers ; we go to them if we are sad or glad : 
but a toad, a worm, an insect, we repel, as if real life was not 
half so real as imaginary life. What a pity flowers can utter no 
sound! A singing rose, a whispering violet, a murmuring honey- 
suckle, — oh, what a rare and exquisite miracle would these be ! 

When we hear melodious sounds, — the wind among trees; the 
noise of a brook falling down into a deep, leaf-covered cavity; 
birds' notes, especially at night; children's voices as you ride 
into a village at dusk, far from your long-absent home, and 



112 ENGLISH LITEBATURE. 

quite homesick ; or a flute heard from out of a forest, — a silver 
sound rising up among silver-lit leaves into the moon-lighted 
air ; or the low conversations of persons whom you love, that sit 
at the fire in the room where you are convalescing, — when we 
think of these things, we are apt to imagine that nothing is per- 
fect that has not the gift of sound. But we change our mind 
when we dwell lovingly among flowers ; for they are always 
silent. Sound is never associated with them. They speak to 
you; but it is as the eye speaks, — by vibrations of light, and not 
of air. 

It is with flowers as with friends, — many may be loved, but 
few much loved. Wild honeysuckles in the wood, laurel-bushes 
in the very regality of bloom, are very beautiful to you; but 
they are color and form only. They seem strangers to you. 
You have no memories reposed in them. They bring back noth- 
ing from time. They point to nothing in the future. But a 
wild-brier starts a genial feeling : it is the country cousin of the 
rose; and that has always been your pet. You have nursed it 
and defended it ; you have had it for companionship as you wrote ; 
it has stood by your pillow while sick ; it has brought remem- 
brance to you, and conveyed your kindest feelings to others. 
You remember it as a mother's favorite ; it speaks to you of j^our 
own childhood, — that white rosebush that snowed in the corner 
by the door ; that generous bush that blushed red in the garden 
witli a tliousand flowers, whose gorgeousness was among the first 
things til at drew your childish eye, and whicli always comes up 
before you when you speak of cliildhood. You remember, too, 
that your mother loved roses. As you walked to church, she 
plucked off a bud and gave you, whicli you carried because you 
were proud to do as she did. You remember how, in the listen- 
ing hour of sermon, her roses fell neglected on her lap, and how 
you slyly drew one and another of them ; and how, when she 
came to, she looked for them under her handkerchief and on the 
floor, until, spying the ill-repressed glee of your face, she smiled 
such a look of love upon you as made a rose for ever after seem 
to you as if it smiled a mother's smile. And so a wild rose, a 
prairie-rose, or a sweet-brier, that at evening fills the air with 
odor (a floral nightingale, whose song is perfume), greets you as a 
dear and intimate friend. You almost wish to get out as you 
travel, and inquire after their health, and ask if they wish to 
send any messages by you to tlieir town friends. 

But no flower can be so strange or so new that a friendliness 
does not spring up at once between 3-ou. You gather them up 
along your rambles, and sit down to make their acquaintance on 
some shaded bank, with your feet over the brook, where youi' 
shoes feed their vanity as in a mirror. You assort them ; you 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 113 

question their graces ; you enjoy their odor ; you range them on 
the grass in a row, and look from one to another; you gather 
them up, and study a fit gradation of colors, and search for new 
specimens to fill the degrees between too violent extremes. All 
the while, and it is a long while, if the daj^ be gracious and lei- 
sure ample, various suggestions and analogies of life are darting 
in and out of your mind. This flower is like some friend ; an- 
other reminds you of mignonnette, and mignonnette always makes 
you think of such a garden and mansion where it enacted some 
memorable part ; and that flower conveys some strange and unex- 
pected resemblance to certain events of society ; this one is a bold 
soldier ; that one is a sweet lady dear ; the white-flowering blood- 
root, trooping up by the side of a decaying log, recalls to your 
fancy a band of white-bannered knights : and so your pleased at- 
tention strays through a thousand vagaries of fancy or memory 
or vaticinating hope. 

Yet these are not home-flowers. You did not plant them. 
You have not screened them. You have not watched their 
growth, plucked away voracious worms or nibbling bugs ; you 
have not seen them in the same places year after year, — children 
of your care and love. Around such there is an artificial life, an 
associational beauty, a fragrance and grace of the affections, that 
no wild-flowers can have. 

It is a matter of gratitude that this finest gift of Providence is 
the most profusely given. Flowers can not be monopolized. The 
poor can liave them as much as the rich. It does not require 
such an education to love and appreciate them as it would to ad- 
mire a picture of Turner's or a statue of Thorwaldsen's. And 
as they are messengers of affection, tokens of remembrance, and 
presents of beauty, of universal acceptance, it is pleasant to think 
that all men recognize a brief brotherhood in them. It is not 
impertinent to ofter flowers to a stranger. The poorest child can 
proffer them to the richest. A hundred persons turned together 
into a meadow full of flowers would be drawn together in a tran- 
sient brotherhood. 

It is affecting to see how serviceable flowers often are to the 
necessities of the poor. If they bring their little floral gift to you, 
it can not but touch your heart to think that their grateful affec- 
tion longed to express itself as much as yours. You have books 
or gems or services that you can render as you will. The poor 
can give but little and do but little. Were it not for flowers, 
they would be shut out from those exquisite pleasures which 
spring from such gifts. I never take one from a child or from 
the poor that I do not thank God in their behalf for flowers. 

And then, when Death enters a poor man's house ! It may be, 
the child was the only creature that loved the unbefriended 



114 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

father, — really loved him, loved him utterly. Or it may be it 
is an only son, and his mother a widow, who, in all his sickness, 
felt the limitation of her poverty for her darling's sake as she 
never had for her own ; and did what she could, but not what she 
would had there been wealth. The coffin is pine. The under- 
taker sold it with a jerk of indifference and haste, lest he should 
lose the selling of a rosewood coffin trimmed with splendid silver 
screws. The room is small. The attendant neighbors are few. 
The shroud is coarse. Oh ! the darling child was fit for whatever 
was most excellent ; and the heart aches to do for him whatever 
could be done that should speak love. It takes money for fine 
linen, money for costly sepulture ; but flowers, thank God, the 
poorest may have: so put white buds in the hair, and honey- 
dew and mignonnette and half-blown roses on the breast. If it 
be spring, a few white violets will do (and there is not a month 
till November that will not give you something) : but if it is 
winter, and you have no single pot of roses, then I fear your dar- 
ling must be buried without a flower ; for flowers cost money in 
the winter. 

And then, if you can not give a stone to mark his burial-place, 
a rose may stand there; and from it you may every spring 
pluck a bud for your bosom, as the child was broken off from you. 
And, if it brings tears for the past, you will not see the flowers 
fade and come again, and fade and come again, year by year,' and 
not learn a lesson of the resurrection, when that which perished 
here shall revive again, never more to droop or to die. 



NORWOOD. 

STOBIES FOR CHILDREN. 

If a day in a country farmhouse is joyous to town people, 
not less exhilarating to country friends is a day in a town man- 
sion. Alice, in her silent and gentle waj^, seemed to absorb hap- 
piness from the very air. That sensitive timidity which was 
like an outer garment to her really courageous and resolute 
nature suffered no embarrassment in Dr. Wentworth's family. 
Agate Bissell's plain speech and direct manner never left an 
unfavorable impression. There was a flow of honesty and undis- 
guised kindness which children instinctively recognized. Her 
whole conduct was indulgent, though her Janguage seemed moni- 
torial and even magisterial. 

Mrs. Wentworth was one whose soul shone through her face, 
and gave it an almost transparent look. She lived under the 
influence of her best faculties : therefore her manner and influence 



HENKY WARD BEE CHER. 115 

seemed to excite the best faculties of those who met her. Yery 
clear-headed was she, very cheerful, and very kind. Your first 
glance upon her face would lead you to say, " Penetration is her 
ruling trait." Your second glance would convince you that sym- 
pathy was more strongly indicated. If she spoke, you would 
conckide that no one feeling ruled, but many, and all of them 
good. At first, you would think, " This woman sees through all 
films, and can not be deceived ; " next you would feel, " There is 
no need of hiding any thing from her : she is to be trusted." 

As for Dr. Wentworth, nobody saw through him, and every- 
body trusted him. There was no dormant faculty in him: he 
was alive all around his soul. There were no arctic and antarc- 
tic zones. The whole globe of his nature was tropical, and yet 
temperate. 

His moods ran through the whole scale of faculties. He was 
various as the separate days. He carried the germs of every 
thing which bore fruit in other men's characters, and so could 
put himself into sympathy with every kind of man. A great 
talker at times ; yet, even when most frank, he was more silent 
than talkative, and left the impression of one who had only 
blown the foam off from unfathomable thoughts. 

What a place was his house for children! — an old mansion, 
quaint and voluminous, stored full of curious knick-knacks, more 
curious books, and most curious engravings. Yet the interior of 
the house was even less attractive to children than the grounds 
about it. Such dainty nooks there were, such pet mazes among 
the evergreens, such sweeps of flowers and tangles of blossoming 
vines, such rows of fruit-laden trees, such discoveries to be made 
here and there of new garden-plats of before-unseen beds of 
flowers, such wildernesses of morning-glories, and tangles of 
honeysuckles running over rocks, or matted in the grass, that, 
once out, the children never wanted to go in ; and, once in, they 
could hardly persuade themselves to go out. 

When the afternoon was turning in the west, and the sunlight 
began to shoot golden beams under the branches of the trees, and 
the shadows stretched themselves every moment larger and larger 
along the ground, as if the time were near for them to fall asleep. 
Dr. Wentworth came in from his patients, and joined the chil- 
dren. Then there was racing and frolicking ! Then you might 
have seen three children indeed ! 

But, after a time, Eose began to persuade her father to tell 
some stories. Story-hunger in children is even more urgent 
than bread-hunger. And so, at length, he suffered himself to be 
led captive to his favorite tree, where scores of times he had been 
wont to weave fables and parables for Rose, — fictions that under 
every form whatsoever still tended in his child's imagination to 



116 ENGLISH LITEEATTJEB. 



ni 



bring Kature home to her as God's wonderful revelation, vital 
with sentiment and divine truth. Sitting upon the ground, with 
one child on either side leaning upon his knees and looking up 
into his face, he began : — 



THE ANXIOUS LEAF. 

" Once upon a time, a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as 
leaves often do when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said, 
'What is the matter, little leaf?' And the leaf said, 'The wind 
just told me that one day it would pull me off, and throw me 
down to die on the ground ! ' The twig told it to the branch on 
which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree : and, when 
the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the 
leaf, ' Do not be afraid ; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till 
you want to.' And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on 
nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself, and 
stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the 
little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down 
merrily as if nothing could ever pull it off". And so it grew all 
summer long till October. And, when the bright days of autumn 
came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very 
beautiful. Some were yellow, and some scarlet, and some striped 
with both colors. Then it asked the tree what it meant. And 
the tree said, 'All these leaves are getting read}?- to fly away; 
and they have put on these beautiful colors because of joy.' 
Then the little leaf began to want to go, and grew very beautiful 
in tliinking of it, and, when it was very gay in color, saw tliat 
the branches of the tree had no color in them; and so the leaf 
said, ' branches ! why are you lead-color, and wo golden ? ' — ■ 
'We must keep on our work-clothes, for our life is not done; but 
your clothes are for holiday, because j^our tasks are over.' Just 
then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go without 
thinking of it ; and the wind took it up and turned it over and 
over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air; and then it fell 
gently down under the edge of tlie fence among hundreds of 
leaves, and fell into a dream, and never waked up to tell what it 
dreamed about." 

How charming it is to narrate fables to children ! How dain- 
tily do they carry on the conscious dramatic deception ! They 
know that if the question were once got in upon them, " Are 
these things true?^^ the bubble would burst, and all its fine 
colors would disappear. Children are unconscious philosophers. 
They refuse to pull to pieces their enjoyments to see what they 
are made of. Eose knew as well as her father that leaves never 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 117 

talked ; yet Rose never saw a leaf without feeling that there 
was life and meaning in it. Flowers had stories in them. The 
natural world stole in upon her with mute messages ; and the 
feelings which woke in her bosom she attributed to Nature ; and 
the thoughts which started she deemed a revelation, and an inter- 
pretation of truths that lay hidden in creation waiting for her. 
What is one story? — a mere provocation of another. 
" Do tell us another, father. That was so short ! " 
" Yes, doctor ; do tell us some more/' said Alice. And then, 
coloring a little, she said, " Rose can have them every day ; but I 
can not, — only once in a great while." 

" Alice, you must make your father tell you stories." 
" He does sometimes ; but they are alwaj^s out of books, 
and almost always Bible-stories; and I know them by heart 
already." 

After Dr. Wentworth had regaled himself enough with the 
children's charming arts of coaxing, he began another story : — 

THE FAIRY FLOWER. 

"Once there was a little girl whose name was Clara. She had 
a very kind heart ; but she was an only child, and had been petted 
so much that she was like to become very selfish. Too late her 
mother lamented that she had indulged her so much, and strove 
to repair the mischief, and to make Clara think of other people's 
happiness, and not solely of her own. On some days, nothing 
could be more charming than Clara's ways. She was gentle and 
obliging, and sang all day long, and made every one who came 
near her happy by her agreeable manners. Then everybodj'- 
admired her, and her mother and aunt were sure that she was 
cured of her pettish dispositions. But, the very next day, all 
her charming ways were exchanged. She carried a moody face. 
She was no longer courteous ; and every one who came near her 
felt the chill of her manner, as if an east wind were blowing 
with her breath. One summer night, after such a miserable 
day, Clara went to her room. The moon was at its full, and 
poured through the window in such floods that she needed no 
other light. Clara sat down by the window very unhappy. She 
thought over the day, and wondered at herself, and tried to 
imagine why it was that on some days she was so happj^, and on 
others so wretched. As she mused, she laid her head back on the 
easy-chair. No sooner had she shut her ejes than a strange 
thing happened. An old man, very feeble, came in ; and in his 
basket, which he seemed hardly able to bear, was a handful of 
flowers and two great stones. He came to Clara, and said, ' My 
daughter, will you help me ? for I am too old to carry this load. 



118 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Please make it lighter.' Then Clara looked at him with pout- 
ing, and said, ^ Go away ! ' Then he said, ' I am poor and suffer- 
ing. Will you not lighten my load ? ' Then Clara condescended 
to take the flowers out of his basket. They were very beautiful ; 
and she laid them in her lap. 

" The old man said, — 

" * My daughter, you have not lightened my basket : you have 
only taken the pleasant things out of it, and left the heavy, 
heavy stones. Oh, please lift one of them out of the basket ! ' 

" Then Clara was angry, and said, — 

'' ' No : get you gone ! I will not touch those dirty stones.' 

"No sooner had she said this than the old man began to 
change before her, and became so bright and white, that he 
looked like a column of crystal. Then he took one of the stones 
and cast it out of the window, and it flew and flew and flew, and 
fell down on the eastern side of a grove, where the sun shone 
first every morning ; and close by it ran a brook that laughed and 
loitered and sported all day and all night, and played with every 
thing that would come to it. 

" And then the crystal old man took the flowers out of her lap, 
and they were wet with moisture ; and he shook them over her 
head, and said, — 

" ^ Change to a flower ! Go and stand by -the stone till your 
shadow shall be marked upon the rock.' 

" In a second, Clara was growing by the side of a wide, flat 
stone ; and the moon cast the shadow of a beautiful flower, with 
long and slender stem, upon the rock. She was very wretched, 
and the dew came and comforted her; and in the morning she 
could not help looking at herself in the brook that came close up 
to the stone, and she saw how beautiful she was. All day her 
shadow fell on the rock ; and, when the sun went away, the shadow 
went away too. All night she threw a pale shadow on the rock; 
and in the morning, when the moon went away, the shadow went 
away too. And the rock lay still all day and all night, and did 
not care for the flower, nor feel its shadow. And she longed and 
longed and longed ; but what could a tender flower do with a hard 
rock ? And the flower asked the brook, ' Can you help me ? ' 
And the brook laughed out louder than it was laughing before, 
and said, ' Ask the birds.' And so she asked a bobolink ; and he 
came frisking to her with a wonderful speech, in Latin, Greek, 
and Syriac, with some words from the great language that was 
before all other languages. And he alit upon the flower, and 
teetered up and down till she thought her back would break; 
but nothing could she learn how to make her shadow stay upon 
the rock. 

"Then she asked a spider ; and he spun a web from her bright 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 119 

blossoms, and fastened it to the rock, and bent ber over, and tied 
her np, till she feared she should never get loose. But all his 
nice films did her no good, and her shadow would not stay upon 
the rock. 

" Then she asked the wind to help her. And the wind blew 
away the spider's web, and blew so hard, that the flower lay its 
whole length upon the rock ; but when the wind left her, and she 
rose up, there was no shadow there ! 

" And she said, ' What is beauty worth if it grows by the side 
of a stone that does not feel it nor care for it ? ^ 

" Then she asked the dew to help her. And the dew said, 
^ How can I help you ? I live contentedly in darkness. I put on 
my beauty only to please other things. I let the sun come 
through my drops, though I know it will consume me.' 

" The flower said, ' I wish I were dew. I would do some good. 
Now my beauty does me no good, and I am wasting it every day 
upon a rock.' When the flower breathed this benevolent wish, 
there were flutters and whispers all around; but the flower 
thought it was only the brook. 

" The next day came that way a beautiful girl. She was 
gathering ferns and mosses and flowers. Whenever she saw a 
tuft of moss, she said, 'Please, dear moss, may I take you?' 
And, when she saw a beautiful branch with scarlet leaves, she 
said, ' Dear bush, may I take these leaves ? ' And then she saw 
a beautiful columbine growing by the edge of a rock ; and she 
said, ' sweet columbine ! may I pluck you ? ' And the flower 
said, 'Please, I must not go till my shadow is fastened on the 
rock.' Then the young lady took from her case a pencil, and in a 
moment traced the shadow of the columbine upon the rock ; and, 
when she had done, she reached her hand and took the stem low 
down, and broke it off. Then Clara sprang up from her chair by 
the window, and there stood her mother, saying, — : 

" ' My dear daughter, you should not fall asleep by an open 
window, — not even in summer, my child. How damp you are ! 
Come, hasten to bed.' 

" It was many days before Clara could persuade herself that 
she had onl}^ dreamed. It was many months before she told the 
dream to her mother; and, when she did, her mother said, — 

'' ' Ah, Clara ! would that all girls might dream, if only it made 
them as good as your dream has made you ! ' " 

-The doctor seemed quite interested in his own story, and sat 
silent for a moment, that the good impression might settle in the 
girls' minds. He was awakened to attention by some little flutter, 
and saw E-ose nodding in a gravely humorous way to Alice, as if 
she meant to say, — 

" I hope, Alice, that you will take this lesson to heart, and never 
be naughty again." 



120 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" Ah, rogue Eose ! " said the doctor. " Is that the way you pay 
me for ni}'- trouble ? You shall" — 

Rose, without waiting for the whole sentence, darted off: and 
in an instant the doctor was in full chase ; while Alice, hesitant, 
followed in the distance, half laughing, and quite uneasy lest 
some harm should come to Rose. Harm did come. She was, 
after nimble turns and skillful evasions, so amused at her father's 
mishap in rushing upon a sweet-brier when he thought to have 
seized her, that her strength dissolved in laughter. She was 
caught, and her hands tied with honeysuckle-vines, and her neck 
was bound with flowers; and so she was carried away captive, 
smothered with sweets, to be punished under the great tree. 
There her father pronounced the sentence, — that, for irreverence 
and rebellion, she should be doomed to hear another story, which 
he called 

COMING AND GOING. 

"Once came to our fields a pair of birds that had never built a 
nest nor seen a winter. Oh, how beautiful was every thing ! The 
fields were full of flowers, and the grass was growing tall, and the 
bees were humming everywhere. Then one of the birds fell to 
singing ; and the other bird said, ^ Who told you to sing ? ' And he 
answered, ' The flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the 
winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky told me, and you told 
me to sing.' Then his mate answered, ' When did I tell you to 
sing?' And he said, ^ Every time you brought in tender grass 
for the nest, and every time your soft wings fluttered ofl^ again for 
hair and feathers to line the nest.' Then his mate said, ' What 
are you singing about?' And he answered, 'I am singing 
about every thing and nothing. It is because I am so happy 
that I sing.' 

"By and by, five little speckled eggs were in the nest ; and his 
mate said, ' Is there any thing in all the world as pretty as my 
eggs ? ' Then they both looked down on some people that were 
passing b}^, and pitied them because they were not birds, and had 
no nests with eggs in them. Then the father-bird sang a melan- 
choly song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to 
live in houses. 

"In a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came home, 
the mother-bird said, 'Oh! what do you think has happened?' — 
* What ? ' — ' One of my eggs has been peeping and moving ! ' 
Pretty soon another egg moved under her feathers, and then 
another and another, till five little birds were born. 

"Now the father-bird sung louder and louder than ever. The 
mother-bird, too, wanted to sing ; but she had no time, and so she 
turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds, 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 121 

that it kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one 
flew. The moment the little birds heard their wings fluttering 
again among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide, that 
nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths. 

" ' Can anybody be happier ? ' said the father-bird to the 
mother-bird. ' We will live in this tree always ; for there is no 
sorrow here. It is a tree that always bears joy.' 

" The very next day, one of the birds dropped out of the nest, 
and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained ; and the 
parent-birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day nor 
the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly ; and great 
was their parents' joy to see them leave the nest, and sit crumpled 
up upon the branches. There was then a great time. One would 
have thought the two old birds were two French dancing-masters, 
talking and chattering, and scolding the little birds to make 
them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch 
to another, and the parents praised him ; and the other little birds 
wondered how he did it. And he was so vain of it, that he tried 
again, and flew and flew, and couldn't stop flying, till he fell plump 
down by the house-door ; and then a little boy caught him and 
carried him into the house, and only three birds were left. Then 
the old birds thought that the sun was not bright as it used to be, 
and they did not sing as often. 

'"' In a little time, the other birds had learned to use their wings ; 
and they flew away and away, and found their own food, and made 
their own beds ; and their parents never saw them any more. 

" Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at each other a long 
while. 

" At last, the wife-bird said, — 

<' ' Why don't you sing ? ' 

"And he answered, — 

" ' I can't sing : I can only think and think.' 

" ^ What are you thinking of ? ' 

" ^ I am thinking how every thing changes. The leaves are 
falling down from off this tree, and soon there will be no roof 
over our heads ; the flowers are all gone, or going ; last night 
there was a frost ; almost all the birds are flown away, and I am 
very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would 
fly far away.' 

" ' Let us fly away together ! ' 

" Then they rose silently ; and, lifting themselves far up in the 
air, they looked to the north : far away they saw the snow 
coming. They looked to the south : there they saw green 
leaves. All day they flew, and all night they flew and flew, till 
they found a land where there was no winter ; where there was 
summer all the timej where flowers always blossom, and birds 
always sing. 



122 ENGLISH LITEEATURB. 

" But the birds that staid behind found the days shorter, the 
nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of 
cold ; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then 
it was plain that it was better to go than to stay.'^ 



A. NEW-ENGLAND SUNDAY.. 

Time waits for no man, and least of all for story-writers. Our 
readers must move six years forward at a step, and rest for one 
Sunday in Norwood, where traveling on Sunday is yet against 
the law. 

It is worth all the inconveniences arising from the occasional 
over-action of j^ew-England sabbath observance to obtain the 
full flavor of a New-England Sunday. But, for this, one should 
have been born there ; should have found Sunday already waiting 
for him, and accepted it with implicit and absolute conviction, as 
if it were a law of Nature, in the same way that night and diiy, 
summer and winter, are parts of Nature. He" should have been 
brought up by parents who had done the same thing, as they 
were by parents even more strict, if tliat were possible ; until not 
religious persons peculiarly, but everybody, not churches alone, 
but society itself and all its population, — those who broke it as 
much as those who kept it, — were stained through with the color 
of Sunday ; nay, until Nature had adopted it, and laid its com- 
mands on all birds and beasts, on the sun and winds, and upon 
the whole atmospliere : so that, without much imagination, one 
might imagine in a genuine New-England Sunday of the Con- 
necticut-river-valley stamp that God was still on that day resting 
from all the work which he had created and made, and that all 
his work rested with him. 

Over all the town rested the Lord's peace. Tlie saw was rip- 
ping away yesterday in the carpenter's sliop, and the hammer was 
noisy enough . to-day there is not a sign of life there. The 
anvil makes no music to-day. Tommy Taft's buckets and barrels 
give forth no hollow, thumping sound. The mill is silent : only 
the brook continues nois3^ Listen ! In yonder pine-woods, what 
a cawing of crows ! Like an echo in a wood still more remote, 
other crows are answering. But even a crow's throat to-day is 
musical. Do they think, because they have black coats on, that 
they are parsons, and have a right to play pulpit with all the pine- 
trees ? Nay, the birds will not have any such monopoly : 
they are all singing, and singing all together; and no one cares 
whether his song rushes across another's or not. Larks and 
robins, blackbirds and orioles, sparrows and bluebirds, mocking 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 123 

catbirds and wrens, were furrowing the air with such mixtures as 
no other day but Sunday, when all artificial and human sounds 
cease, could ever hear. Every now and then, a bobolink seemed 
impressed with the duty of bringing these jangling birds into 
more regularity; and, like a country singing-master, he flew down 
the ranks, singing all the parts himself in snatches, as if to stim- 
ulate and help the laggards. In vain. Sunday is the birds' day, 
and they will have their own democratic worship. 

There was no sound in the village street. Look either way, not 
a vehicle, not a human being. The smoke rose up soberly and 
quietly, as if it said, " It is Sunday." The leaves on the great 
elms hung motionless, glittering in dew, as if they too, like the 
people who dwelt under their shadow, were waiting for the bell to 
ring for meeting. Bees sung and flew as usual ; but honey-bees 
have a Sunday way with them all the week, and could scarcely 
change for the better on the seventh day. 

But, oh, the sun ! It had sent before, and cleared ever^^ stain 
out of the sky. The blue heaven was not dim and low as on 
secular days, but curved and deep, as if on Sunday it shook off 
all encumbrance which during the week had lowered and flat- 
tened it, and sprang back to the arch and symm.etry of a dome. 
All ordinary sounds caught the spirit of the day. The shutting 
of a door sounded twice as far as usual. The rattle of a bucket 
in a neighbor's yard, no longer mixed with heterogeneous noises, 
seemed a new sound. The hens went silentl}'- about, and roosters 
crowed in jDsalm-tunes. .And, when the first bell rang, I^ature 
seemed overjoyed to find something that it might do without 
breaking Sunday, and rolled the sound over and over, nnd pushed 
it through the air, and raced with it over field and hill twice as 
far as on week-da3^s. There were no less than seven steeples in 
sight from the belfry: and the sexton said, "On still Sundaj's 
I've heard the bell, at one time and another, when the day was 
fair, and the air moving in the right way, from every one of them 
steeples ; and I guess likely they've all heard our'n." 

" Come, Rose," said Agate Bissell, at an even earlier hour 
than when Rose usually awakened, — "come. Rose, it is the sab- 
bath. We must not be late Sunday morning of all days in the 
";vveek. It is the Lord's da3^" 

There was little preparation required for the day. Saturday 
night, in some parts of New England, was considered almost as 
sacred as Sunday itself After sundown on Saturday night, no 
play, and no work, except such as is immediately preparatory to 
the sabbath, were deemed becoming in good Christians. The 
clothes had been laid out the niglit before. Nothing was forgot- 
ten. The best frock was ready; the hose and shoes were waiting. 
Every article of linen, every ruffle and ribbon, were selected on 



124 EKGLISH LITERATURE. 

Saturday night. Every one in the house walked mildly ; every 
one spoke in a low tone : yet all were cheerful. The mother 
had on her kindest face, and nobody laughed ; but everybody made 
it up in smiling. The nurse smiled, and the children held on to 
keep down a giggle within the lawful bounds of a smile ; and the 
doctor looked rounder and calmer than ever ; and the dog flapped 
his tail on the floor with a softened sound, as if he had fresh 
wrapped it in hair for that very da}^ Aunt Toodie, the cook (so 
the children had changed Mrs. Sarah Good's name), was blacker 
than ever and shinier than ever, and the coiiee better, and the 
cream richer, and the broiled chickens jucier and more tender, 
and the biscuit 'whiter, and the corn-bread more brittle and sweet. 

When the good doctor read the Scriptures at family prayer, the 
infection of silence had subdued every thing except the clock. 
Out of the wide hall could be heard in the stillness the old clock, 
that now lifted up its voice with unwonted emphasis, as if, unno- 
ticed through the bustling week, Sunday was its vantage-ground 
to proclaim to mortals the swift flight of time; and, if the old 
pedant performed the task with something of an ostentatious pre- 
cision, it was because in that house nothing else put on official 
airs, and the clock felt the responsibility of doing it for the whole 
mansion. 

• And now came mother and catechism ; for Mrs. Wentworth fol- 
lowed the old custom, and declared that no child of hers should 
grow up without catechism. Secretly, the doctor was quite will- 
ing; though openly he played off upon the practice a world of 
good-natured discouragement, and declared that there should be 
an opposition set up, — a catechism of nature, with natural laws 
for decrees, and seasons for Providence, and flowers for graces. 
The youuger children were taught in simple catechism : but 
Kose, having reached the mature age of twelve, was now mani- 
festing her power over the Westminster Shorter Catechism ; and 
as it was simply an achievement of memory, and not of the un- 
derstanding, she had the book at great advantage, and soon sub- 
dued every question and answer in it. As much as possible, the 
doctor was kept aloof on such occasions. His grave questions 
were not to edification; and often they caused Rose to stumble, 
and brought down sorely the exultation with which she rolled 
forth, " They that are effeetuall.y called do in this life partake of 
justification, adoption, sanctificatiouj and the several benefits 
which in tliis life do either accompany or flow from them." 

"What do those words mean, Bose?" 

^^ Which words, pa?" 

^^ Adoption, sanctification, and justification ? " 

Kose hesitated, and looked at her mother for rescue. 

^^ Doctor, why do you trouble the child ? Of course, she don't 



HENEY WARD BEECHER. 125 

know yet all the meaning ; but that will come to her when she 
grows older." 

'"'You make a nest of her memory, then, and put words there, 
like eggs, for future hatching? " 

" Yes, that is it exactly. Birds do not hatch their eggs the 
minute they lay them : they wait." 

"Laying eggs at twelve to be hatched at twenty is subjecting 
them to some risk, is it not ? " 

" It might be so with eggs, but not with catechism. That will 
keep, without spoiling, a hundred years." 

" Because it is so dry ? " 

" Because it is so good. But do, dear husband, go away, and 
not put notions in the children's heads. It's hard enough al- 
ready to get them through their tasks. Here's poor Arthur, 
who has been two Sundays on one question, and has not got it 

yet." 

Arthur, aforesaid, was sharp and bright in any thing addressed 
to his reason : but he had no verbal memory, and he was there- 
fore wading painfully through the catechism like a man in a 
deep, muddy road ; with this difference, that the man carries too 
much clay with him, while nothing stuck to poor Arthur. Great 
was the lad's pride and exultation on a former occasion when his 
mother advanced him from the Smaller Catechism to the dignity 
of the Westminster Catechism. He could hardly wait for Sunday 
to begin his conquests. He was never known after the first Sun- 
day to show any further impatience. He had been four weeks in 
reaching the fourth question ; and two weeks already had he lain 
before that luminous answer, beating or it like a ship too deeply 
laden, and unable to cross the bar. 

"What is God, Arthur?" said his mother. 

" God is — is a — God is — and God — God is a " — 

Having got safely so far, the motlier suggests " spirit ; " at which 
he gasps eagerlj^, " God is a spirit." 

" Infinite," says the mother. 

" Infinite," says Arthur. 

And then blushing, and twisting in his chair, he seemed unable 
to extract any thing more. 

" Eternal," says the mother. 

" Eternal," says the boy. 

" Well; go on. ' God is a spirit, infinite, eternal : ' what else ? " 

'" ' God is a spirit, eternal, infinite : ' what else ? '^ 

" Nonsense ! " says the startled mother. 

"Nonsense !" goes on the boy, supposing it to be a part of the 
regular answer. 

" Arthur, stop ! What work you are making ! " 

To stop was the very exercise in catechism at which he was 



126 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

most proficient ; and he stopped so fully and firmly, that nothing 
more could be got out of him or into him during the exercise. 
But his sorrow soon fled; for the second bell had rung, and it was 
just time to walk ; and '' everybody was going," the servant re- 
ported. The doctor had been called awaj'' ; and his wife and the 
children moved down the yard, — Rose with demure propriet}'-, 
and Arthur and his eight-year-old brother, Charles, with less piety 
manifest in deportment, but, on the whole, with decent demeanor. 
The beauty of the day, the genial season of the year, brought 
forth every one, — old men and their feebler old wives, young and 
hearty men and their plump and ruddj^ companions. Young 
men and girls and children, thick as punctuation-points in He- 
brew text, filled the street. In a low voice, they spoke to each 
other in single sentences. 

" A fine day. There'll be a good congregation out to-day." 

" Yes : we may expect a house full. How is Widow Cheney : 
have you heard ? " 

" Well, not much better : can't hold out many days. It will 
be a great loss to the children." 

" Yes : but we must all die ; nobody can skip his turn. Does 
she still talk about them that's gone ? " 

"They say not. I believe she's sunk into a quiet way; and it 
looks as if she would go off eas3^" 

" Sunday is a good day for dying : it's about the only journey 
that speeds well on this day." 

There was something striking in the outflow of people into the 
street that till now had seemed utterly deserted. There was no 
fevered hurry, no negligent or poorly-dressed people. Every 
family came in groups, old folks and 3^oung children ; and every 
member blossomed forth in his best apparel, like a rose-bush in 
June. Do you know that man in a silk hat and new black 
coat ? Probably it is some stranger. No : it is the carpenter, 
Mr. Baggs, who was racing about yesterday with his sleeves 
rolled up, and a dust-and-business look in his face. I knew you 
would not know him. Adams Gardner, the blacksmith, — does 
he not look every inch a judge, now that he is clean-washed, 
shaved, and dressed ? His ejes are as bright as the sparks that 
fly from his anvil. 

Are not the folks proud of their children ? See what groups 
of them! How ruddy and plump are most ! Some are 'roguish, 
and cut clandestine capers at every chance. Others seem like 
wax figures, so perfectly proper are they. Little hands go slyly 
througli the pickets to pluck a tempting flower. Other hands 
carry h^ann-books or Bibles. But carry what they may, dressed 
as each parent can afford, is there any thing tlie sun shines upon 
more beautiful than these troops of Sunday children? 



HENRY WARD BEECHER. 127 

The old bell had it all its own way up in the steeple. It was 
the licensed noise of the day. In a long shed behind the church 
stood a score and half-score of wagons and chaises and carryalls, 
— the horses already beginning the forenoon's work of stamping, 
and whisking the flies. More were coming. Hiram Beers had 
^Miitched up/' and brought two loads with his new hack ; and 
now, having secured the team, he stood with a few admiring 
young fellows about him, remarking on the people as they 
came up. 

" There's Trowbridge : he'll git asleep afore the first prayer's 
over. I don't b'lieve he's heerd a sermon in ten years. I've 
seen him sleep standin' up in singin'. 

" Here comes Deacon Marble ! Smart old feller, ain't he ? 
Wouldn't think it jest to look at him ! Face looks like an ear of 
last summer's sweet-corn, — all dried up ; but I tell ye he's got the 
juice in him yit ! Aunt Polly's gittin' old, ain't she ? They say 
she can't walk lialf the time ; lost the use of her limbs : but it's 
all gone to her tongue. That's as good as a razor, and a sight 
better'n mine ; for it never needs sharpenin'. 

" Stand away, boys ! there's 'Biah Cathcart. Good horses ; 
not fast, but mighty strong, — just like the owner." 

And with that Hiram touched his new Sunday hat to Mrs. 
Cathcart and Alice ; and, as he took the horses by the bits, he 
dropped his head, and gave the Cathcart boys a look of such 
awful solemnity, all except one eye, that they lost their sobriety. 
Barton alone remained sober as a judge. 

" Here comes ' Dot-and-Gro-One ' and his wife. They're my 
kind o' Christians. She is a saint, at any rate. 

" How is it with you. Tommy Taft ? " 

" Fan- to middlin', thank'e. Such weather would make a hand- 
spike blossom, Hiram ? " 

"Don't you think that's a leetle strong, Tomm}'-, for Sunday? 
P'raps you mean afore it's cut ? " 

" Sartin : that's what I mean. But you mustn't stop me, 
Hiram. Parson Buell '11 be lookin' for me. He never begins 
till I git there." 

" You mean you always git there 'fore he begins ? " 

Next Hiram's prying eyes saw Mr. Turfmould, the sexton and 
undertaker, who seemed to be in a pensive meditation upon all 
the dead that he had ever buried. He looked upon men in a 
nrild and pitying manner, as if he forgave them for being in 
good health. You could not help feeling that he gazed upon 
you with a professional eye, and saw just how j^ou would look in 
the condition which was to him the most interesting period of a 
man's earthly state. He walked with a soft tread, as if he was 
always at a funeral j and, when he shook your hand, his left 



128 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

hand half followed his right^ as if he were about beginning to lay 
you out. He was one of the few men absorbed by his business, 
and who unconsciously measured all things from its standpoint. 

" Good-morning, Mr. Turfmould ! How's your health ? How's 
business with you ? '' 

" Good, the Lord be praised ! I've no reason to complain.'^ 

And he glided silently and smoothly into the church. 

" There comes Judge Bacon, white and ugly," said the critical 
Hiram. " I wonder Avhat he comes to meetin' for. Lord knows 
he needs it, — sly, slippery old sinner ! Face's as white as a lily : 
his heart's as black as a chimney-flue afore it's cleaned. He'll 
get his flue burned out if he don't repent, that's certain. He 
don't believe the Bible : they say he don't believe in God. 
Wal, I guess it's pretty even between 'em. Shouldn't wonder 
if God didn't believe in him neither." 

Hiram's prejudices were perhaps a little too severe. The 
judge was very seliish, but not otherwise bad. He would not do 
a positively bad deed if he could help it; but he neglected to 
do a great many good ones which other men with warm hearts 
would have done. But he made up in manner whatever he 
lacked in feeling. Dressed with unexceptionable propriety, his 
whole bearing was dignified and kind. No man in the village 
spoke more musically and gently ; no one met you with a greater 
cordiality. His expressions of kind wishes, and his anxiety to 
serve you, needed only a single instance of hearty fulfillment to 
make Judge Bacon seem sincerely and unusually kind. But 
those who had most to do with him found that he was cold and 
selfish at heart, inflexible and unfeeling when seeking his rights 
or interests ; and his selfishness was the more ghastly as it 
clothed itself in the language and manners of gentle good will. 

"He talks to you," said Hiram, "just as Black Sam lathers 
you. A kind of smooth rubbing goes on, and you feel soft and 
satisfied with yourself, and sort o' lean to him, when he takes 
you by the nose, and shaves and shaves and shaves; and it's so 
smooth, that you don't feel the razor. But I tell you, when you 
git away, your skin smarts. You've been shaved. 

"Here come the Bages and the Weekses, and a whole raft 
from Hardscrabble," said Hiram, as five or six one-horse wagons 
drove up. At a glance, one could see that these were^ farmers 
who lived to work. They were spare in figure, brown 'in com- 
plexion, — every thing w^orn ofi" but bone and muscle, — like 
ships with iron masts and wire rigging. They drove little nub- 
bins of horses, tough and rough, that had never felt a blanket in 
winter, or known a leisure day in summer. 

" Them fellers," said Hiram, " is just like stones. I don't 
believe there's any blood or innards in 'em more'n in a crowbar. 



HEXRY WARD BEECHER. 129 

They work early, and work all day, and in the night, and keep 
workin' ; and never seem to get tired except Sunday, when 
they've nothin' to do. You know, when Fat Porter was buried, 
they couldn't git him into the hearse, and had to carry him with 
poles ; and Weeks was one of the bearers. And they had a pretty 
heavy time of it, nigh about three hours, what with liftin' and 
fixin' him at the house, and fetchin' him to the church-door, and 
then carryin' him to the graveyard ; and Weeks said he hadn't 
enjoyed a Sundaj^ so much he couldn't tell when. 

'' ' Hiram,' sez he, ' I should like Sunday as well as week-days 
if I* could work on it ; but I git awful tired doin' nothin'.' 

" They say," said Hiram, " that they never do exactly die up 
in Hardscrabble. They work up and up, and grow thinner and 
thinner like a knife-blade, till tliey git so small, that some day 
they accidentally git misplaced or dropped, and nobody misses 
'em : so that they die off in a general way like pins, without any 
one of 'em making a particular fuss about it. But I guess that 
ain't so," added Hiram with a grave air, as if fearing that he 
might mislead the young folks about him. Then, with demure 
authority, he said, ''' Boys, go in : the bell's done tollin', and 
meetin's goin' to begin. Go in, and don't make a noise ; and see 
you tell me where the text is. I've got to look after these 
horses, or they'll get mixed up." 

This remark was called forth by a squeal and a rattle and 
backing of wagons, which showed that mischief was already 
brewing. 

Having got the people all safely into church, Hiram bestowed 
his attention on the horses. The whole green was lined with 
horses. Every h itching-post, and the railing along the sidewalk 
and at the fronts of the stores, were closel_y occupied. 

Seeing Pete leaning on Dr. Wentworth's gate, Hiram beck- 
oned him over, and employed him in his general tour of inspec- 
tion, as a bishop might employ his chaplain. Here the reins 
had been pulled under a horse's feet ; next a horse had got his 
bridle off; another had backed and filled till the wagon-wheels 
were cramped ; and at each position Hiram issued orders to 
Pete, who good-naturedly, and as a matter indisputa,ble, did as 
he was ordered. If Hiram had told Pete to shoulder one of the 
horses, he would have made the attempt. 

"Look here, Pete, if that ain't a shame, then there ain't no 
truth in the ten commandments ! A man that'll drive a horse with 
a sore shoulder like that is a brute. Just feel how hot it is ! 
Pete, you get a bucket of water, and put a little warm in it to 
take off the chill, and wash that off, and take him out of harness. 
I swow ! — - and I don't know but I ought to say I swear ! for 
it's Sunday work. Anyhow, if Blakesley don't know any better 



130 ENGLISH LITER AT UEE. 

than that, he ought not to own a horse. There he is in church 
a-hearin' the gospel, and feelin' all over as comfortable as a cruller ; 
and he's left his horse out here to the flies and the sun, with a 
shoulder that's a disgrace to Christianity. But that's the way with 
us pretty much all round : if we are good here, we are bad there. 
Folks's good and bad is like a board-teeter, — if one end goes up, 
t'other is sure to go down." 

It was curious to see Pete's superiority to Hiram in the matter 
of dogs. In several wagons lay the master's dog; and Hiram was 
not permitted to approach without dispute : but there was not a 
dog, big or little, cross or affectionate, that did not own the myste- 
rious power that Pete had over animals. Even dogs in whom 
a sound conscience was bottomed on an ugly temper practiced a 
surly submission to Pete's familiarity. 

It was nearly twelve o'clock wlien Dr. Wentworth, returning 
from his round of visits, found Hiram sitting on the fence, his 
labors over, and waiting for Dr. Buell to finish. 

" Not in church, Hiram ? I'm afraid you've not been a good 
boy." 

" Don't know. Somebody must take care of the outside as well 
as inside of church. Dr. Buell rubs down the folks, and I rub the 
horses : he sees that their tacklin' is all right in there, and I do 
the same out here. Folks and animals are pretty much of a much- 
ness ; and they'll bear a siglit of takin' care of." 

" Whose nag is that one, Hiram, — the roan ? " 

" Tliat's Deacon Marble's." 

'^ Wh}^, he seems to sweat standing still." 

Hiram's eye twinkled. 

" You needn't say nothin', doctor ; but I thought it a pitj'- so 
many horses shouldn't be doin' any thing. Of course, they don't 
know any thing about Sunday (it ain't like workin' a creatur' 
that reads tlie Bible) : so I just slipped over to Skiddy's widder 
(she ain't been out doors this two montlis, and I knew she ought 
to have the air), and I gave her about a mile. She was afraid 
'twould be breakin' Sunday. ' Not a bit,' says I. ' Didn't the 
Lord go out Sundays, and set folks off with their beds on their 
backs ? and didn't he pull oxen and sheep out of ditches, and do 
all that sort of thing ? ' If she'd knew that I took the deacon's 
team, she'd been worse afraid. But I knew the deacon would 
like it ; and if Polly didn't, so much the better. I like to spite 
those folks that's too particular ! There, doctor, there's the last 
hymn." 

It rose upon the air, softened by distance and the inclosure of 
the building, — rose and fell in regular movement. Even Hiram's 
tongue ceased. Tiie vireo in tlie tops of the elm hushed its shrill 
snatches. Again the hymn rose, and this time fuller and louder, 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 131 

as if the whole congregation had caught the spirit. Men's and 
women's voices, and little children's, were in it. Hiram said, 
without any of his usual pertness, — 

" Doctor, there's somethin' in folks singin' when you are outside 
the church that makes you feel as though you ought to be inside. 
Mebbe a fellow will be left outside up there when they're singin', 
if he don't look out." 

When the last verse had ended, a pause and silence ensued. 
Then came a gentle bustle, a sound of pattering feet. Out shot a 
boy, and then two or three ; and close upon them a bunch of men. 
The doors were wide open and thronged. The whole green was 
covered with people, and the sidewalks were crowded. 

Tommy Taft met the minister at the door, and put out his great 
rough hand to shake. 

" Thankee, doctor ; thankee : very well done. Couldn't do it 
better myself. It'll do good, — know it. Feel better myself. I 
need just such preachin', — mouldy old sinner, — need a scourin' 
about once a week. Dreffal wicked to hev such doctrine, and not 
be no better ; ain't it, doctor ? " 



EALPH WALDO EMERSOK 

Born in 1803, Boston, Mass. 

Mr. Emerson now lives in Concord, Mass., and writes and lectures at his leisure. 
Many of his admirers regard him as the greatest thinker and philosopher of his time; 
others, admitting the power of his genius and his great originality of thought and 
expression, claim that one quality of a great writer and thinker is the ability to speak 
to the comprehension of the greatest number, and so do not yield their admiration 
freely to one whom they often can not fully understand. It is not to be denied that 
he stands forth as one of the foremost thinkers of the age; and his keen analysis of 
man and Nature, his comprehensive views of life and its issues, though expressed 
frequently in a style above the level of the rapid or g('neral reader, place him in the 
front rank of philosophical essayists. He has publi-^hed several voliuues of lectures and 
essays, and a volume of poems. We select, from his '* Representative Men," Napoleon, 
or the Man of the World, as serving to illustrate the Avonderful vigor of his style, and 
at the same time being freest from metaphysical speculations and transcendentalism. 



NAPOLEON; OR, THE MAN OF THE WORLD. 

Among the eminent persons of the nineteenth century, Bona- 
parte is far the best known and the most powerful, and owes his 
predominance to the fidelity with which he expresses the tone of 
thought and belief, the aims of the masses of active and cultivated 
men. It is Swedenborg's theory, that every organ is made up of 



132 ENGLISH LITEEATUBE. 

tomogeneous particles ; or, as it is sometimes expressed, every 
whole is made of similars : that is, the lungs are composed of infi- 
nitely small lungs ; the' liver, of infinitely small livers ; the kidney, 
of little kidneys, &c. Following this analogy, if any man is found 
to carry with him the power and affections of vast numbers, if 
Napoleon is France, if Napoleon is Europe, it is because the people 
whom he sways are little Napoleons. 

In our society, there is a standing antagonism between the 
conservative and the democratic classes ; between those who have 
made their fortunes, and the young and the poor who have 
fortunes to make ; between the interests of dead labor, — that is, 
the labor of hands long ago still in the grave, which labor is now 
entombed in money-stocks, or in land and buildings owned by idle 
capitalists, — and the interests of living labor, which seeks to 
possess itself of land and buildings and money-stocks. The first 
class is timid, selfish, illiberal, hating innovation, and continually 
losing numbers by death. The second class is selfish also, 
encroaching, bold, self-relying, always outnumbering the other, 
and recruiting its numbers every hour b}^ births : it desires to 
keep open every avenue to the competition of all, and to multiply 
avenues, — the class of business-men in America, in England, in 
France, and throughout Europe, — the class of industry and skill. 
Napoleon is its representative. The instinct of active, brave, able 
men, throughout the middle class everywhere, has pointed out 
Napoleon as the incarnate democrat. He had their virtues and 
their vices ; above all, he had their spirit or aim. That tendency 
is material, pointing at a sensual success, and employing the rich- 
est and most various means to that end, — conversant witli mechan- 
ical powers, highl_y intellectual, widely and accuratel}^ learned and 
skillful, but subordinating all intellectual and spiritual forces into 
means to a material success. To be the rich man is the end. 
" God has granted," says the Koran, " to every people, a prophet 
in its own tongue." Paris and London and New York, the 
spirit of commerce, of money, and material power, were also to 
have their prophet ; and Bonaparte was qualified and sent. 

Every one of the million readers of anecdotes or memoirs or 
lives of Napoleon delights in the page, because he studies in it 
his own history. Napoleon is thoroughly modern, and,- at the 
highest point of his fortunes, has the ver}^ spirit of the newspapers. 
He is no saint ; to use his own word, " no capuchin : " and he is 
no hero in the high sense. The man in the street finds in him 
the qualities and powers of other men in the street. He finds 
him, like himself, by birth a citizen, who by very intelligible 
merits arrived at such a commanding position, that he could in- 
dulge all those tastes which the common man possesses, but is 
obliged to conceal and deny. Good society, good books, fast travel- 



RALPH WALDO EMERSOK 133 

ing, dress, dinners, servants without number, personal weight, tho 
execution of his ideas, the standing in the attitude of a benefactor 
to all persons about him, tlie refined enjoyments of pictures, statues, 
music, palaces, and conventional lionors, — precisely what is agree- 
able to the heart of every man in the nineteenth century, — this 
powerful man possessed. 

It is true that a man of Napoleon's truth of adaptation to the 
mind of the masses around him becomes not merely representa- 
tive, but actually a monopolizer and usurper of other minds. Thus 
Mirabeau plagiarized every good thought, every good word, that 
was spoken in France. Dumont relates that he sat in the gallery 
of the Convention, and heard Mirabeau make a speecli. It struck 
Dumont that he could fit it with a peroration, which he wrote in 
pencil immediately, and showed it to Lord Elgin, who sat by him. 
Lord Elgin approved it ; and X)umont, in the evening, showed it 
to Mirabeau. Mirabeau read it, pronounced it admirable, and 
declared he would incorporate it into his harangue to-morrow to 
the Assembly. "It is impossible," said Dumont, "as, unfor- 
tunately, I have shown it to Lord Elgin," — " If you have shown 
it to Lord Elgin, and to fifty persons beside, I shall still speak it 
to-morrow." And he did speak it, with much effect, at the next 
day's session; for Mirabeau, with his overpowering personalit}^, 
felt that these things which his presence inspired were as much 
his own as if he had said them, and that his adoption of them gave 
them their weight. Much more absolute and centralizing was the 
successor to Mirabeau's popularity and to much more than his 
predominance in France. Indeed, a man of Napoleon's stamp 
almost ceases to have a private speech and opinion. He is so 
largely receptive, and is so placed, that he comes to be a bureau 
for all the intelligence, wit, and power of the age and country. 
He gains the battle ; he makes the code ; he makes the system of 
weights and measures; he levels the Alps; he builds the road. 
All distinguished engineers, savans, statists, report to him: so, 
likewise, do all good heads in every kind. He adopts the best 
measures, sets his stamp on them, and not these alone, but on every 
happy and memorable expression. Every sentence spoken by 
Napoleon, and every line of his writing, deserves reading, as it is 
the sense of France. 

Bonaparte was the idol of common men because he had in 
transcendent degree the qualities and powers of common men. 
There is a certain satisfaction in coming down to the lowest ground 
of politics ; for we get rid of cant and hypocrisy. Bonaparte 
wrought, in common with that great class he represented, for 
power and wealth ; but Bonaparte, specially, without any scruple 
as to the means. All the sentiments which embarrass men's 
pursuit of these objects he set aside. The sentiments were for 



134 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

women and children. Fontanes, in 1804, expressed Napoleon's 
own sense, when, in behalf of the Senate, he addressed him, 
" Sire, the desire of perfection is the worst disease that ever 
afflicted the human mind." The advocates of liberty and of 
progress are " ideologists," — a word of contempt often in his 
mouth. " decker is an ideologist ; " " Lafayette is an ideologist." 

An Italian proverb, too well known, declares, that, " if you 
would succeed, you must not be too good." It is an ad\^antage, 
within certain limits, to have renounced the dominion of the senti- 
ments of piety, gratitude, and generositj^ ; since what was an 
impassable bar to us, and still is to others, becomes a convenient 
weapon for our purposes, — just as the river, which was a formi- 
dable barrier, winter transforms into the smoothest of roads. 

Napoleon renounced, once for all, sentiments and affections, and 
would help himself with his hands and his liead. With him is no 
miracle and no magic. He is a worker in brass, in iron, in wood, 
in earth, in roads, in buildings, in mone}^, and in troops ; and a very 
consistent and wise master-workman. He is never weak and lite- 
rary, but acts with the solidity and the precision of natural agents. 
He has not lost his native sense, and sympathy with things. Men 
give way before such a man as before natural events. To be 
sure, there are men enough who are immersed in things, as farm- 
ers, smiths, sailors, and mechanics generally ; and we know how 
real and solid such men appear in the presence of scholars and 
grammarians : but these men ordinarily lack the power of arrange- 
ment, and are like hands without a head. Bat Bonaparte super- 
added to this mineral and animal force insight and generalization ; 
so that men saw in him combined the natural and the intellectual 
power, as if the sea and land had taken flesh, and begun to cipher. 
Therefore the land and sea seem to presuppose him. He came 
unto his own,*and they received him. This ciphering oj)erative 
knows what he is working with, and what is the product. He 
knew the properties of gold and iron, of wheels and ships, of 
troops and diplomatists, and required that each should do after its 
kind. 

The art of war was the game in whicli he exerted his aritli- 
metic. It consisted, according to him, in having always more forces 
than the enemy on the point where the enemy is attacked, or 
vWiere he attacks ; and his whole talent is strained by endless 
maneuver and evolution to march always on the enemy at an 
angle, and destroy his forces in detail. It is obvious that a very 
small force, skillfally and rapidly maneuvering, so as always to 
bring two men against one at the point of engagement, will be an 
overmatch for a much larger body of men. 

The times, his constitution, and his early circumstances, com- 
bined to develop this pattern democrat. He had the virtues of 



KALPH WALDO EMERSON. 135 

his class, and the conditions for their activity. That common 
sense, vvliich no sooner respects any end than it finds the means 
to effect it ; the deUght in the use of means ; in the choice, sim- 
plification, and combining of means ; the directness and thorough- 
ness of his work ; the prudence with which all was seen, and the 
energy with which all was done, — make him the natural organ and 
head of what I may almost call, from its extent, the viodern 
party. 

Nature must have far the greatest share in every success ; and 
so in his. Such a man was wanted, and such a man was born, — 
a man of stone and iron, capable of sitting on horseback sixteen 
or seventeen hours, of going many days together without rest or 
food except b}^ snatches, and with the speed and spring of a tiger 
in action ; a man not embarrassed by any scruples ; compact, in- 
stant, selfish, prudent, and of a perception which did not suffer 
itself to be balked or misled by any pretenses of others, or any 
superstition, or any heat or haste of his own. " My hand of iron," 
he said, " was not at the extremity of my arm : it was immediately 
connected with my head." He respected the power of Nature and 
Fortune, and ascribed to it his superiority, instead of valuing him- 
self, like inferior men, on his opinionativeness, and waging war with 
Nature. His favorite rhetoric lay in allusion to his star ; and he 
pleased himself, as well as the people, when he styled himself the 
" Child of Destiny." " They charge me," he said, " with the com- 
mission of great crimes : men of my stamp do not commit crimes. 
Nothing has been more simple than my elevation : 'tis in vain to 
ascribe it to intrigue or crime. It was owing to the peculiarity of 
the times, and to mj reputation of having fought well against the 
enemies of my country. I have always marched with the opinion 
of great masses, and with events. Of what use, then, would crimes 
be to me ? " Again he said, speaking of his son, " My son can 
not replace me : I could not replace myself. I am the creature 
of circumstances." 

He had a directness of action never before combined with so 
much comprehension. He is a realist, terrific to all talkers and 
confused truth-obscuring persons. He sees where the matter 
hinges, throws himself on the precise point of resistance, and 
slights all other considerations. He is strong in the right manner ; 
namely, by insight. He never blundered into victory, but won 
his battles in his head before he won them on the field. His 
principal means are in himself He asks counsel of no other. In 
1798, he writes to the Directory, "I have conducted the campaign 
without consulting any one. I should have done no good if I had 
been under the necessity of conforming to the notions of anotlier 
person. I liave gained some advantages over superior forces, and 
when totally destitute of every thing, because, in the persua- 



136 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

sion that your confidence was reposed in me, my actions were as 
prompt as my thoughts." 

History is full, down to this day, of the imbecility of kings and 
governors. They are a class of persons much to be pitied ; for they 
know not what they should do. The weavers strike for bread ; 
and the king and his ministers, not knowing what to do, meet 
them with bayonets. But Napoleon understood his business. 
Here was a man who in each moment and emergency knew what 
to do next. It is an immense comfort and retreshment to the 
spirits, not only of kings, but of citizens. Few men have any 
next ; they live from hand to mouth, without plan, and are ever 
at the end of their line, and, after each action, wait for an impulse 
from abroad. Napoleon had been the first man of the world if his 
ends had been purely public. As he is, he inspires confidence and 
vigor by the extraordinary unity of his action. He is firm, sure, 
self-denying, self-postponing, sacrificing every thing to his aim, — 
money, troops, generals, and his own safety also, to his aim; not 
misled, like common adventurers, by the splendor of his own 
means. " Incidents ought not to govern policy," he said, " but 
policy incidents." " To be hurried away by every event is to 
have no political system at all." His victories were only so many 
doors ; and he never for a moment lost sight of his way onward in 
the dazzle and uproar of the present circumstance. He knew what 
to do, and he flew to his mark. He would shorten a straight line 
to come at his object. Horrible anecdotes may no doubt be 
collected from his history, of the price at which he bought his 
successes : but he must not therefore be set down as cruel, but 
only as one who knew no impediment to his will ; not bloodthirsty, 
not cruel ; but woe to what thing or person stood in his way ! Not 
bloodthirsty, but not sparing of blood, and pitiless. He saw 
only the object : the obstacle must give way. " Sire, Gen. Clarke 
can not combine with Gen. Junot for the dreadful fire of the 
Austrian battery." — " Let him carry tlie battery ! " — " Sire, 
every regiment that approaches the heav}?- artillery is sacrificed. 
Sire, what orders ? " — " Forward, forward ! " Seruzier, a colonel 
of artillery, gives in his " Military Memoirs" the following sketch 
of a scene after the battle of Austerlitz : " At the moment in 
which the Russian army was making its retreat, painfully, but in 
good order, on the ice of the lake, the Emperor Napoleon came 
riding at full speed toward the artillery. ' You are losing time,' 
he cried. ' Fire upon those masses ! they must be ingulfed : fire 
upon the ice ! ' The order remained unexecuted for ten minutes. 
In vain several officers and myself were placed on the slope of a 
hill to produce the eft'ect : their balls and mine rolled upon the 
ice without breaking it up. Seeing that, I tried a simple method 
of elevating light howitzers. The almost perpendicular fall of the 



RALPH WALDO EMEESON. 137 

heavy projectiles produced the desired effect. My method was 
immediately followed by the adjoining batteries ; and in less than 
no time we buried" some* ''thousands of Eussians and Austrians 
under the waters of the lake." 

In the plenitude of his resources, every obstacle seemed to van- 
ish. " TJiere shall be no Alps," he said ; and he built his perfect 
roads, climbing by graded galleries their steepest precipices, until 
Italy was as open to Paris as any town in France. He laid his 
bones to, and wrought for his crown. Having decided what was 
to be done, he did that with miglit and main. He put out all liis 
strength. He risked every thing, and spared nothing, — neither 
ammunition nor money nor troops nor generals nor himself. 

We like to see every thing do its office after its kind, wdiether 
it be a milch-cow or a rattle-snake ; and, if fighting be the best 
mode of adjusting national diiferences (as large majorities of men 
seem to agree), certainly Bonaparte was right in making it thor- 
ough. '-The grand principle of war," he said, "was, that an 
army ought ahvaj's to be ready, by day and by night, and at all 
hours, to make all the resistance it is capable of making." He 
never economized his ammunition, but on a hostile position 
rained a torrent of iron — shells, balls, grape-shot — to annihi- 
late all defense. On any point of resistance, he concentrated 
squadron on squadron in overwhelming numbers, until it was 
swept out of existence. To a regiment of horse-chasseurs at 
Lobenstein, two days before the battle of Jena, Napoleon said, 
"My lads, you must not fear death: when soldiers brave death, 
they drive him into the enemy's ranks." In the fury of assault, 
he no more spared himself He w^ent to the edge of his possi- 
bility. It is plain that in Italy he did what he could, and all 
that he could. He came several times within an inch of ruin; 
and his own person was all but lost. He was flung into the 
marsh at Areola. The Austrians were between him and his 
troops in the melee, and he was brought off with desperate 
efforts. At Lonato, and at otlier places, he was on the point of 
being taken prisoner. He fought sixty battles. He had never 
enough. Each victory was a new weapon. " My power would 
fall were I not to support it by new achievements. Conquest 
has made me what I am, and conquest must maintain me." He 
felt, with every wise man, that as much life is needed for conser- 
vation as for creation. We are always in peril, always in a bad 
ptiglit, just on the edge of destruction, and only to be saved by 
invention and courage. 

This vigor was guarded and tempered by the coldest prudence 
and punctuality. A thunderbolt in the attack, he was found in- 

* As I quote at second-hand, and can not procure Seruzier, I dare not adopt the 
high figure I find. 



138 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

vulnerable in his intreuchments. His very attack was nevei 
tlie inspiration of courage, but the result of calculation. His 
idea of the best defense consists in being still the attacking party. 
" My ambition," he says, " was great, but was of a cold nature." 
In one of his conversations with Las Casas, he remarked, "As to 
moral courage, I have rarely met with the two-o'clock-in-the- 
morning kind : I mean unprepared courage ; that which is neces- 
sary on an unexpected occasion, and which, in spite of the most 
unforeseen events, leaves full freedom of judgment and decision." 
And he did not hesitate to declare that he was himself eminentlj' 
endowed with this " two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage, and that 
he liad met with few persons equal to himself in this respect." 

Every thing depended on the nicety of his combinations ; and 
the stars were not more ^^unctual than his arithmetic. His per- 
sonal attention descended to the smallest particulars. " At Mon- 
tebello, I ordered Kellermann to attack with eight hundred horse ; 
and with these he separated the six thousand Hungarian grena- 
diers before the very eyes of the Austrian cavalry. This cavalry 
was half a league off, and required a quarter of an hour to arrive 
on the field of action; and I have observed that it is always 
these quarters of an hour that decide the fate of a battle." "Be- 
fore he fought a battle, Bonaparte thought little about what he 
should do in case of success, but a great deal about what he 
sliould do in case of a reverse of fortune." The same prudence 
and good sense mark all his behavior. His instructions to his 
secretary at the Tuileries are worth remembering : " During the 
night, enter my chamber as seldom as possible. Do not awake 
me when you have any good news to communicate ; with that 
there is no hurry: but, when you bring bad news, rouse me in- 
stantly; for then there is not a moment to be lost." It was a 
whimsical economy of the same kind which dictated his practice, 
when general in Italy, in regard to his burdensome correspond- 
ence. He directed Bourrienne to leave all letters unopened for 
three weeks, and then observed with satisfaction how large a part 
of the correspondence had thus disposed of itself, and no longer 
required an answer. His achievement of business was immense, 
and enlarges the known powers of man. There have been many 
working kings from Ulysses to William of Orange, but none who 
accomplished a tithe of this man's performance. 

To these gifts of Nature Napoleon added the advantage of 
having been born to a private and humble fortune. In his later 
days, he had the weakness of wishing to add to his crowns and 
badges the prescription of aristocracy ; but he knew his debt to 
his austere education, and made no secret of his contempt for the 
born kings, and for " the hereditary asses," as he coarsely stjded 
the Bourbons. He said, that "in their exile they had learned 



EALPH WALDO EMERSOlSr. 139 

nothing, and forgot nothing." Bonaparte had passed through all 
the degrees of military service ; hut also was citizen before he was 
emperor, and so has the key to citizenship. His remarks and 
estimates discover the information and justness of measurement 
of the middle class. Those who had to deal with him found that 
he was not to be imposed upon, but could cipher as well as another 
man. This appears in all parts of his Memoirs, dictated at St. 
Helena. When the expenses of the empress, of his household, 
of his palaces, had accumulated great debts, Napoleon examined 
the bills of tlie creditors himself, detected overcharges and errors, 
and reduced the claims by considerable sums. 

His grand weapon — namely, the millions whom he directed — 
he owed to the ^representative character which clothed him. He 
interests us as he stands for France and for Europe 5 and he exists 
as captain and king only as far as the devolution, or the inter- 
est of the industrious masses, found an organ and a leader in 
him. In the social interests, he knew the meaning and value of 
labor, and threw himself naturally on that side. I like an inci- 
dent mentioned by one of his biographers at St. Helena : " When 
walking with Mrs. Balcombe, some servants, carrying heavy 
boxes, passed by on the road ; and Mrs. Balcombe desired them, 
in rather an angry tone, to keep back. Napoleon interfered, say- 
ing, 'Respect the burden, madam.'" In the time of the empire, 
he directed attention to the improvement and embellishment of 
the markets of the capital. " The market-place," he said, " is the 
Louvre of the common people." The principal works that have 
survived him are his magnificent roads. He filled the troops 
with his spirit ; and a sort of freedom and companionship grew 
up between him and them, which the forms of his court never 
permitted between the officers and himself They performed 
under his eye that which no others could do. The best docu- 
ment of his relation to his troops is the order of the day on the 
morning of the battle of Austerlitz, in which Napoleon promises 
the troops that he will keep his person out of reach of fire. 
This declaration, which is the reverse of that ordinarily made by 
generals and sovereigns on the eve of a battle, sufficiently ex- 
plains the devotion of the army to their leader. 

But, though there is in particulars this identity between Napo- 
leon and the mass of the ]3eople, his real strength lay in their 
convi(;tion that he was their representative in his genius and aims, 
not only when he courted, but when he controlled and even when 
he decimated them by his conscriptions. He knew, as well as any 
Jacobin in France, how to philosophize on liberty and equality ; 
and when allusion was made to the precious blood of centuries, 
which was spilled by the killing of the Due d'Enghien, he sug- 
gested, " Neither is my blood ditch-water." The people felt that 



140 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

no longer tlie throne was occupied, and the land sucked of its 
nourishment, by a small class of legitimates secluded from all 
community with the children of tlie soil, and holding the ideas 
and superstitions of a long-forgotten state of society. In- 
stead of that vampire, a man of themselves held in the Tuile- 
ries knowledge and ideas like their own ; opening of course, to 
them and their children, all places of power and trust. The day 
of sleepy, selfish policy, ever narrowing the means and opportu- 
nities of young men, was ended ; and a day of expansion and de- 
mand was come. A market for all the powers and productions 
of man was opened ; brilliant prizes glittered in the eyes of youth 
and talent. The old, iron-bound, feudal France was changed into 
a young Ohio or New York ; and those who smarted .under the 
immediate rigors of the new monarch par<loned them as the 
necessary severities of the military system which had driven out 
the oppressor. And, even when the majority of the people had 
begun to ask whether they had really gained any thing under 
the exhausting levies of men and money of the new master, 
the whole talent of the countrj'', in every rank and kindred, toolc 
his part, and defended him as its natural patron. In 1814, when 
advised to rely on the higher classes, Napoleon said to those 
around him, " Gentlemen, in the situation in which I stand, my 
only nobility is the rabble of the faubourgs." 

Napoleon met this natural expectation. The necessity of his 
position required a hospitality to every sort of talent, and its ap- 
pointment to trusts ; and his feeling went along with this policy. 
Like every superior person, he undoubtedly felt a desire for men 
and compeers, and a wish to measure his power with other mas- 
ters, and an impatience of fools and underlings. In Italy, he 
sought for men, and found none. "Good God!" he said, "how 
rare men are ! There are eighteen millions in Italy, and I have 
with difficulty found two, — Dandolo and Melzi." In later j^ears, 
with larger experience, his respect for mankind was not increased. 
In a moment of bitterness, he said to one of his oldest friends, 
" Men deserve the contempt with which they inspire me. I have 
only to put some gold lace on the coat of my virtuous republicans, 
and they immediatelj'- become just what I wish them." This im- 
patience at levity was, however, an oblique tribute of respect to 
those able persons who commanded his regard, not only when he 
found them friends and coadjutors, but also when they resisted 
his will. He could not confound Fox and Pitt, Carnot, Lafay- 
ette, and Bernadotte, with the danglers of his court; and, in 
spite of the detraction which his systematic egotism dictated 
toward the great captains who conquered with and for him, ample 
acknowledgments are made by him to Lannes, Duroc, Kleber, 
Dessaix, Massena, Murat, Ney, and Augereau. If he felt him- 



EALPH WALDO EMERSOK. 141 

self tlieir patron, and the founder of their fortunes, — as when he 
said, " I made my generals out of mud," — he could not hide his 
satisfaction in receiving from them a seconding and support com- 
mensurate with the grandeur of his enterprise. In the Eussian 
campaign, he was so mucli impressed hy the courage and resources 
of Marshal Ney, tliat he said, " I have two hundred millions in 
my coffers, and I would give them all for Ney." The characters 
wliich he has drawn of several of his marshals are discriminating, 
and, though they did not content the insatiable vanity of French 
officers, are no doubt substantially just. And, in fact, every 
species of merit was sought and advanced under his government. 
" I know," he said, " the depth and draught of water of every 
one of my generals." Natural power was sure to be well received 
at his court. Seventeen men, in his time, were raised from com- 
mon soldiers to the rank of king, marshal, duke, or general ; and 
the crosses of his Legion of Honor were given to personal valor, 
and not to family connection. " When soldiers have been bap- 
tized in the fire of a battle-field, they have all one rank in my 
e3*es." 

When a natural king becomes a titular king, everybody is 
pleased and satisfied. The Revolution entitled tlie strong popu- 
lace of the Faubourg St. Antoine, and every horseboy and jdow- 
der-monkey in the army, to look on Napoleon as flesh of his 
flesli, and the creature of his party. But there is something in 
the success of grand talent which enlists a universal sympathy : 
for, in the prevalence of sense and spirit over stupidity and mal- 
versation, all reasonable men have an interest ; and, as intellect- 
ual beings, we feel the air purified by the electric shock when 
material force is overthrown by intellectual energies. As soon as 
we are removed out of the reach of local and accidental partialities, 
man feels that Napoleon fights for him ; these are honest victo- 
ries ; this strong steam-engine does our work. Whatever appeals 
to the imagination by transcending the ordinary limits of human 
ability, wonderfully encourages and liberates us. This capacious 
head, revolving and disposing sovereignly trains of affairs, and 
animating such multitudes of agents ; this eye, which looked 
through Europe; this prompt invention; this inexhaustible re- 
source, — what events! what romantic pictures! what strange 
situations I — when spying the Alps by a sunset in the Sicilian 
Sea ; drawing up his army for battle in sight of the Pj^ramids, 
and saying to his troops, " From the tops of those Pyramids forty 
centuries look down on j^ou ; " fording the Ped Sea ; wading in 
the gulf of the Isthmus of Suez. On the shore of Ptolemais, 
gigantic projects agitated him. " Had Acre fallen, I should have 
changed the face of the world." His arni}^, on the night of the 
battle of AusterlitZ; — which was the anniversary of his inaugura- 



142 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

tion as emperor, presented liim with a bouquet of forty standarrls 
taken in the fight. Perhaps it is a little puerile the pleasure he 
took in making these contrasts glaring ; as when he pleased him- 
self with making kings wait in his ante-chambers at Tilsit, at 
Paris, and at Erfurt. 

We can not, in the universal imbecility, indecision, and indo- 
lence of men, sufficiently congratulate ourselves on this strong 
and ready actor, who took occasion by the beard, and showed us 
how much may be accomplished by the mere force of such virtues 
as all men possess in less degrees ; namely, by punctuality, by 
personal attention, by courage and thoroughness. " The Aus- 
trians," he said, "do not know the value of time." I should cite 
him in his earlier years as a model of prudence. His power 
does not consist in any wild or extravagant force ; in any enthu- 
siasm like Mahomet's, or singular power of persuasion ; but in 
the exercise of common sense on each emergency, instead of abid- 
ing by rules and customs. The lesson he teaches is that which 
vigor alvvaj^s teaches, — that there is always room for it. To 
what heaps of cowardly doubts is not that man's life an answer ! 
When he appeared, it was the belief of all military men that 
there could be nothing new in war ; as it is the belief of men to- 
day that nothing new can be undertaken in politics, or in church, 
or in letters, or in trade, or in farming, or in our social manners 
and customs ; and as it is at all times the belief of society that 
the world is used up. But Bonaparte knew better than society ; 
and, moreover, knew that he knew better. I 'think all men know 
better than they do, — know that the institutions w^e so volubly 
commend are go-carts and baubles ; but they dare not trust their 
presentiments. Bonaparte relied on his own sense, and did not 
care a bean for other people's. The world treated his novelties 
just as it treats everybody's novelties, — made infinite objection, 
mustered all the impediments ; but he snapped his finger at their 
objections. "What creates great difficulty," he remarks, "in the 
profession of tlie land-commander, is the necessity of feeding so 
many men and animals. If he allows himself to be guided by 
the commissaries, he will never stir, and all his expeditions will 
fail." An example of his common sense is what he says of the 
passage of the Alps in winter; which all w^riters, one repeating 
after the other, had described as impracticable. "The^vinter," 
says Napoleon, "is not the most unfavorable season for^he pas- 
sage of lofty mountains. The snow is then firm, the weather set- 
tled; and there is nothing to fear from avalanches, — the real and 
only danger to be apprehended in the Alps. On those high 
mountains, there are often very fine days in December, of a dry 
cold, with extreme calmness in the air." Read his account, too, 
of the way in which battles are gained : " In all battles, a mo- 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 143 

ment occurs when the bravest troops, after having made the 
greatest efforts, feel inclined to run. That terror proceeds from a 
want of confidence in their own courage ; and it only requires a 
slight opportunity, a pretense, to restore confidence to them. 
The art is to give rise to the opportunity, and to invent the pre- 
tense. At Areola, I won the battle with twentj^-five horsemen. 
I seized that moment of lassitude, gave every man a trumpet, and 
gained the day with this handful. You see that two armies are 
two bodies which meet, and endeavor to frighten each other : a 
moment of panic occurs, and that moment must be turned to 
advantage. When a man has been present in many actions, he 
distinguishes that moment without difuculty : it is as easy as 
casting up an addition." 

Tliis deputy of the nineteenth century added to his gifts a ca- 
pacity for speculation on general topics. He delighted in run- 
ning through the range of practical, of literary, and of abstract 
questions. His opinion is always original, and to the purpose. 
On the voyage to Egypt, he liked, after dinner, to fix on three or 
four persons to support a proposition, and as many to oppose it. 
He gave a subject; and the discussions turned on questions of 
religion, the different kinds of government, and the art of war. 
One day, he asked whetlier the planets were inhabited; on 
another, what was the age of the world. Then he proposed to 
consider tlie probability of the destruction of the globe, either by 
water or by fire ; at another time, the truth or falkicy of presenti- 
ments, and the interpretation of dreams. He was very fond of 
talking of religion. In 1806, he conversed with Fournier, bishop 
of Montpellier, on matters of theology. There were two points 
on which they could not agree ; viz., that of hell, and that of sal- 
vation out of the pale of the Church. The emperor told Jose- 
phine that he disputed like a devil on these two points, on which 
the bishop was inexo^-able. To the philosophers he readily yielded 
all that was proved against religion as the work of men and time ; 
but lie would not hear of materialism. One fine night, on deck, 
amid a clatter of materialism, Bonaparte pointed to the stars, and 
said, '•' You may talk as long as you please, gentlemen ; but who 
made all that ? " He delighted in the conversation of men of 
science, particularly of Monge and Berthollet: but the men of 
letters he slighted; "they were manufacturers of phrases.'^ 
Of medicine, too, he was fond of talking, and with those of its 
practitioners whom he most esteemed, — with Corvisart at Paris, 
and with Antonomarchi at St. Helena. "Believe me," he said to 
the last, "'we had better leave off all these remedies: life is a 
fortress which neither you nor I know aii}^ thing about. Why 
throw obstacles in the way of its defense ? Its own means are 
t^uperior to all the apparatus of your laboratories. Corvisart can- 



144 EITGLISH LITERATURE. 

didly agreed with me that all your filthy mixtures are good for 
nothing. Medicine is a collection of uncertain prescriptions, the 
results of which, taken collectively, are more fatal than useful to 
mankind. Water, air, and cleanliness are the chief articles in 
my pharmacopoeia." 

His Memoirs, dictated to Count Montholon and Gen. Gourgaud 
at St. Helena, have great value, after all the deduction that it 
seems is to be made from them on account of his known disin- 
genuousness. He has the good-nature of strength and conscious 
superiority. I admire his simple, clear narrative of his battles, 
— good as Caesar's, — his good-natured and sufficiently respectful 
account of Marshal Wurmser and his other antagonists, and his 
own equality as a writer to his varying subject. The most agree- 
able portion is the campaign in Egypt. 

He had hours of thought and wisdom. In intervals of leisure, 
either in the camp or the palace, Napoleon appears as a man of 
genius, directing on abstract questions the native appetite for truth, 
and the impatience of words, he was wont to show in war. He 
could enjoy every play of invention, a romance, a hon-mot, as well 
as a stratagem in a campaign. He deliglited to fascinate Josephine 
and her ladies in a dim-lighted apartment by the terrors of a fic- 
tion, to which his voice and dramatic power lent every addition. 

I call Napoleon the agent or attorney of tlie middle class of 
modern society ; of the throng who fill the markets, shops, count- 
ing-houses, manufactories, ships, of the modern world, aiming to 
be rich. He was the agitator, the destroj^er of prescription, the 
internal improver, the li)3eral, the radical, the inventor of means, 
the opener of doors and markets, the subverter of monopoly and 
abuse. Of course, the rich and aristocratic did not like him. 
England, the center of capital, and Eome and Austria, centers 
of tradition and genealogj-, opposed him. The consternation of 
the dull and conservative classes ; the terror of the foolish old men 
and old women of the Boms.n conclave, who in their despair 
took hold of any thing, and would cling to red-hot iron ; the 
vain attempts of statists to amuse and deceive him, of the Empe- 
ror of Austria to bribe him ; and the instinct of the young, ar- 
dent, and active men everywhere, which pointed him out as the 
giant of the middle class, — make his history bright and command- 
ing. He had the virtues of the masses of his constituents : he 
had also their vices. I am sorry that the brilliant picture has its 
reverse. But that is the fatal quality which we discover in our 
pursuit of wealth, that it is treacherous, and is bought by the 
breaking or weakening of the sentiments ; and it is inevitable that 
we should find the same fact in the history of this champion, who 
proposed to himself simply a brilliant career without any stipula- 
tion or scruple concerning the means. 



RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 145 

Bonaparte was singularly destitute of generous sentiments. 
The highest-placed individual in the most cultivated age and 
population of the world, he has not the merit of common truth 
and honesty. He is unjust to his generals ; egotistic and monop- 
olizing; meanly stealing the credit of their great actions from 
Kellermann, from Bernadotte ; intriguing to involve his faithful 
Junot in hopeless bankruptcy in order to drive him to a distance 
from Paris, because the familiarity of his manners offends the 
new pride of his throne. He is a boundless liar. The official 
paper, his " Moniteurs," and all his bulletins, are proverbs for 
saying what he wished to be believed; and, worse, he sat, in 
his premature old age, in his lonely island, coldly falsifying facts 
and dates and characters, and giving to history a theatrical eclat. 
Like all Frenchmen, he has a passion for stage effect. Every 
action that breathes of generosity is poisoned by this calculation. 
His star, his love of glory, his doctrine of the immortality of the 
soul, are all French. " I must dazzle and astonish. If I were to 
give the liberty of the press, my power could not last three days." 
To make a great noise is his favorite design. " A great reputa- 
tion is a great noise : the more there is made, the farther off it is 
heard. Laws, institutions, monuments, nations, all fall ; but the 
noise continues, and resounds in after-ages." His doctrine of im- 
mortality is simply fame. His theory of influence is not flatter- 
ing. " There are two levers for moving men, — interest and 
fear. Love is a silly infatuation, depend upon it. Friendship is 
but a name. I love nobody. I do not even love my brothers : 
perhaps Joseph a little, from habit, and because he is my elder; 
and Duroc — I love him too ; but why ? Because his character 
pleases me : he is stern and resolute, and I believe the fellow 
never shed a tear. For -mj part, I know very well that I have 
no true friends. As long as I continue to be what I am, I may 
have as many pretended friends as I please. Leave sensibility 
to women ; but men should be firm in heart and purpose, or they 
should have nothing to do with war and government." He was 
thoroughly unscrupulous. He would steal, slander, assassinate, 
drown, and poison, as his interest dictated. He had no gener- 
osity, but mere vulgar hatred ; he was intensely selfish ; he was 
perfidious ; he cheated at cards ; he was a prodigious gossip, and 
opened letters, and delighted in his infamous police ; and rubbed 
his hands with joy when he had intercepted some morsel of intel- 
ligence concerning the men and women about him, boasting that 
" he knew every thing ; " and interfered with the cutting the 
dresses of the women; and listened after the hurrahs and the 
compliments of the street incognito. His manners were coarse. 
He treated women with low familiarity. He had the habit of 
pulling their ears and pinching their cheeks when he was in 
10 



146 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

good-humor, and of pulling tlie ears and whiskers of men, and of 
striking and horse-play with them, to his last days. It does not 
appear that he listened at keyholes, or at least that he was 
caught at it. In short, when you have penetrated through all 
the circles of power and splendor, you were not dealing with a 
gentleman at last, but with an impostor and a rogue. And he 
fully deserves the epithet of Jupiter Scajjin, or a sort of Scamp 
Jupiter. 

In describing the two parties into which modern society divides 
itself, — the democrat and the conservative, — I said Bonaparte 
represents the democrat, or the party of men of business, against 
the stationary or conservative party. I omitted then to say 
what is material to the statement ; namely, that these two parties 
diifer only as young and old. The democrat is a young conserva- 
tive : the conservative is an old democrat. The aristocrat is the 
democrat ripe, and gone to seed, because both parties stand on 
the one ground of the supreme value of property, which one en- 
deavors to get, and the other to keep. Bonaparte may be said to 
represent the whole history of this party, — its youth and its age ; 
yes, and, with poetic justice, its fate, in his own. The counter- 
revolution, the counter-party, still waits for its organ and repre- 
sentative in a lover and a man of truly public and universal 
aims. 

Here was an experiment, under the most favorable conditions, 
of the powers of intellect without conscience. Never was such a 
leader so endowed and so weaponed ; never leader found such 
aids and followers. And what was the result of this vast talent 
and power, of these immense armies, burned cities, squandered 
treasures, immolated millions of men, of this demoralized Eu- 
rope ? It came to no result. All passed away like the smoke of 
his artillerj^, and left no trace. He left France smaller, poorer, 
feebler, than he found it ; and the whole contest for freedom was 
to be begun again. The attempt was, in principle, suicidal. 
France served him with life and limb and estate as long as it 
could identify its interest with him : but when men saw that after 
victory was another war ; after the destruction of armies, new 
conscriptions ; and they who had toiled so desperately were never 
nearer to the reward, — they could not spend what- they had 
earned, nor repose on their down-beds, nor strut in their cha- 
teaux ; they deserted him. Men found that his absorbing ego- 
tism was deadly to all other men. It resembled the torpedo, 
which inflicts a succession of shocks on any one who takes hold 
of it, producing spasms which contract the muscles of the hand, 
so that the man can not open his fingers ; and the animal inflicts 
new and more violent shocks, until he paralyzes and kills his vic- 
tim. So this exorbitant egotist narrowed, impoverished; and ab- 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 147 

sorbed tlie power and existence of those who served him ; and 
the universal cry of France and of Europe, in 1814, was, " Enough 
of him ! " " Assez de Bonaparte ! " 

It was not Bonaparte's fault. He did all that in him lay to 
live and thrive without moral principle. It was the nature of 
things, the eternal law of man and of the world, which balked 
and ruined him ; and the result in a million experiments will be 
the same. Every experiment, by multitudes or by individuals, 
that has a sensual and selfish aim, will fail. The pacific Fourier 
will be as inefficient as the pernicious Napoleon. As long as our 
civilization is essentially one of property, of fences, of exclusive- 
ness, it will be mocked by delusions. Our riches will leave us 
sick ; there will be bitterness in our laughter ; and our wine will 
burn our mouth. Only that good profits which we can taste with 
all doors open, and which serves all men. 



WASHINGTON IKYING. 

Born April 3, 1783, ISTew-York City. 
Died Nov, 28, 1859. 

Leaving school at the age of sixteen, he commenced the study of law; but, after 
having traA^eled in Europe "for his health, he gave iip the law, though he had been 
admitted to the bar, and devoted himself to literary pursuits. Of all the kind re- 
marks that all the critics have made of him, we will quote only the following : — 

*' But allow me to speak what I honestly feel, — 
To a true poet-heart add the fun of Dick Steele; 
Throw in all of Addison, minus the chill ; 
With the whole of that partnership's stock and good-will 
Mix well; and, while stirring, hum o'er as a spell 
The ' fine old English gentleman ; ' simmer it well ; 
Sweeten just to your own private liking; then strain, 
That only the finest and clearest remain ; 
Let it stand out of doors till a soul it receives 

From the warm, lazy sun, loiterinjr down through green leaves, — 
And you'll find a choice nature, not wholly deserving 
A name either English or Yankee, — just Irving." 

James Russell LowelVs Fable for the Critics. 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" Salmagundi; " " Sketch-Book ; " " History of New York, by Diedrich Knicker- 
bocker;" "Bracebridge Hall;" "Tales of a Traveler;" "Life of Columbus;" 
"Chronicles of Conquest of Grenada;" "Ajhambra;" "Tour of the Prairies;" 
" Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey;" "Legends of the Conquest of Spain; " " Asto- 
ria;" "The Adventures of Captain Bonneville;" "Life of Goldsmith:" "Life of 
Washington." 



148 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

RIP VAN WINKLE. 
A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KlflCKERBOCKER. 

[The following tale was found among the papers of the late Diedrich Knicker 
bocker, an old gentleman of New York who was very curious in the Dutch history 
of the province, and the manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. 

His historical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as among 
men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favorite topic: whereas he found 
the old burghers, and, still more, their wives, rich in that legendary lore so invalua- 
ble to true history. Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, 
snugly shut up in its low-roofed farmhouse, under a spreading sycamore, he looked 
upon it as a little clasped volume of black-letter, and studied it with the zeal of a 
book- worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province during the reign 
of the Dutch governors, which he published some years since. There have been 
various opinions as to the literary character of his work; and, to tell the truth, it is 
not a whit better than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, 
which, indeed, was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since been 
completely established ; and it is now admitted into all historical collections as a 
book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; and, now that 
he is dead and gone, it can not do much harm to his memory to say that his time 
might have been much better employed in weightier labors. He, however, was apt 
to ride his hobby his own way: and though it did now and then kick up the dust a 
little in the eyes of his neighbors, and grieve the spirit of some friends for whom he 
felt the truest deference and aflFection, yet his errors and follies are remembered 
"m(ji-e in soi'row than in anger; " and it begins to be suspected that he never in- 
tended to injure or offend. But, however his memory may be appreciated by critics, 
it is still held dear by many folks whose good opinion is Avell worth having; particu- 
larly by certain biscuit-bakers, who have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on 
their New- Year cakes, and have thus given him a chance for immortality almost 
equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo medal or a Queen Anne's farthing.] 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember 
the Catskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the 
great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the 
river, swelling up to a noble hight, and lording it over the sur- 
rounding country. Every change of season, every change of 
weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in 
the magical hues and shapes of these mountains; and^ they are 
regarded by all the good- wives far and near as perfect barome- 
ters. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in 
blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening 
sky ; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, 
they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, 
in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a 
crown of glory. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. l49 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have 
descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle- 
roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the up- 
land melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It 
is a little village of great antiquity, having been founded by some 
of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, — just 
about the beginning of the government of the good Peter Stuy- 
vesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were some of the houses 
of the original settlers standing within a few years, built of small 
yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed windows, and 
gable fronts surrounded with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses (which, 
to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and weather-beaten), 
there lived many years since, while the country was yet a prov- 
ince of Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow, of the name 
of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of the Van Winkles 
who figured so gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyve- 
sant, and accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He 
inherited, however, but little of the martial character of his an- 
cestors. I have observed that he was a simple, good-natured 
man. He was, moreover, a kind neighbor, an obedient, hen- 
pecked husband. Indeed, to the latter circumstance might be 
owing that meekness of spirit which gained him such universal 
popularity ; for those men are most apt to be obsequious and con- 
ciliating abroad who are under the discipline of shrews at home. 
Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant and malleable in the 
fiery furnace of domestic tribulation ; and a curtain-lecture is 
worth all the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of pa- 
tience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may therefore, in 
some respects, be considered a tolerable blessing ; and, if so, Eip 
Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is that he was a great favorite among all the good- 
wives of the village, who, as usual with the amiable sex, took his 
part in all family squabbles, and never failed, whenever they 
talked those matters over in their evening gossipings, to lay all 
the blame on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, 
too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted 
at their sports, made their plaj^things, taught them to fly kites 
and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of ghosts, witches, 
and Indians. Whenever he went dodging about the village, he 
was surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, clam- 
bering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks on him with 
impunitj'' ; and not a dog would bark at him throughout the neigh- 
borhood. 

The great e'rror in Kip's composition was an insuperable aver- 
sion to aU kinds of profitable labor. It could not be from the 



150 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, 
with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day, 
without a murmur, even tliough he should not be encouraged by 
a single nibble. He would carrj'" a fowling-piece on his slioulder 
for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, and up 
hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild-j^igeons. He 
would never refuse to assist a neighbor, even in the roughest toil ; 
and was a foremost man at all country frolics for husking corn, or 
building stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to 
employ him to run their errands, and to do such little odd jobs as 
their less-obliging husbands would not do for them. In a word, 
Kip was ready to attend to anybody's business but his own ; but 
as to doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found 
it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his farm : it 
was the most pestilent little piece of ground in the whole coun- 
trj^ : every thing about it went wrong, and would go wrong, in 
spite of him. His fences were continually falling to pieces; his 
cows would either go astray, or get among the cabbages ; weeds 
were sure to grow quicker in his fields than anywhere else ; the 
rain always made a point of setting in just as he had some out- 
door work to do : so that though his patrimonial estate had dwin- 
dled away under his management, acre by acre, until there was 
little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and potatoes, 
yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the neighborhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they belonged 
to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten in his own likeness, 
promised to inherit the habits, with the old clothes, of his father. 
He was generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, which he 
had much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does her 
train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy mortals, of 
foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the world easy ; eat white 
bread or brown, Avhichever can be got with least thought or 
trouble ; and would rather starve on a penny than work for a 
pound. If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
perfect contentment ; but his wife kept continually dinning in his 
ears about his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was 
bringing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going ; and everything he said or did was sure to 
produce a torrent of household eloquence. Kip had but one way 
of replying to all lectures of the kind; and that, by frequent use, 
had grown into a habit. He shrugged his shoulders, shook his 
head, cast up his e3^es, but said nothing. This, however, alwaj^s 
provoked a fresh volley from his wife : so that he was fain to draw 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 151 

off his forces, and take to the outside of the house, — the only- 
side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked husband. 

Kip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who was as 
much lien-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van Winkle regarded 
them as companions in idleness, and even looked upon Wolf with 
an evil eye, as the cause of his master's going so often astray. 
True it is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, he 
was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but what 
courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting terrors 
of a woman's tongue ? The moment Wolf entered the house, his 
crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, or curled between his 
legs ; he sneaked about with a gallows-air, casting many a side- 
long glance at Dame Van Winkle ; and, at the least flourish of a 
broomstick or ladle, he would fly to the door with yelping precipi- 
tation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle as years of 
matrimonj' rolled on. A tart temper never mellows with age, and 
a sharp tongue is the only edged tool that grows keener with con- 
stant use. For a long while, he used to console himself^ v/hen 
driven from home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the village, 
which held its sessions on a bench before a small inn designated 
by a rubicund portrait of his Majesty George the Third. Here 
they used to sit in the shade through a long, lazy summer's day, 
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless sleepy 
stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any states- 
man's money to have heard the profound discussions that some- 
times took place when by chance an old newspaper fell into their 
hands from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would 
listen to the contents as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, 
tlie schoolmaster ! — a dapper, learned little man, who was not to 
be daunted by the most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how 
sagely they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place ! 

The opinions of this junto were completely controlled by Nich- 
olas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and landlord of the inn ; 
at the door of which he took his seat from morning till night, 
just moving sufficiently to avoid the sun, and keep in the shade 
of a large tree: so that the neighbors could tell the hour by his 
movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true, he was rarely 
heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His adherents, 
however (for every great man has his adherents), perfectly under- 
stood him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When any 
thing that was read or related displeased him, he was observed to 
smoke his pipe vehemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and 
angry puff's ; but, when pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly 



152 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds ; and some- 
times, taking the pipe from his mouth, and letting the fragrant 
vapor curl about his nose, would gravely nod his head in token of 
perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at length 
routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly break in upon 
the tranquillity of the assemblage, and call the members all to 
naught. Nor was that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, 
sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged 
him outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idleness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and his only 
alternative to escape from the labor of- the farm and clamor of his 
wife was to take gun in hand, and stroll away into the woods. 
Here he would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree,, and 
share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sympa- 
thized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. "Poor Wolf !" he would 
say : "thy mistress leads thee a dog's life of it. But never mind, 
my lad : whilst I live, thou shalt never want a friend to stand by 
thee." Wolf would wag his tail ; look wistfully in his master's 
face ; and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated 
the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, Rip had 
unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest parts of the Cats- 
kill Mountains. He was after his favorite ' sport of squirrel- 
shooting; and the still solitudes had echoed with the reports of his 
gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after- 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain-herbage, that 
crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the 
trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of 
rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far 
below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the re- 
flection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark, here and 
there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the 
blue highlands. 

On the other side, he looked down into a deep mountain-glen, 
wild, lonely, and shagged ; the bottom filled with fragments from 
the impending clifts, and scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of 
the setting sun. For some time. Rip lay musing on this scene. 
Evening was gradually advancing : the mountains began'to throw 
their long blue shadows over the valleys. He saw that it would be 
dark long before he could reach the village ; and he heaved a heavy 
sigh when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame Van 
Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a distance 
hallooing, "Rip Van Winkle, Rip Van Winkle!" He looked 
round, but could see nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 153 

across the mountain. He thought his fancy must have deceived 
him, and turned again to descend ; when he heard the same cry 
ring through the still evening air, " E/ip Van Winkle, Rip Van 
Winkle ! " and at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and, 
giving a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully 
down into the glen. E-ip now felt a vague apprehension stealing 
over him. He looked anxiously in the same direction, and per- 
ceived a strange figure slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending 
under the weight of something he carried on his back. He was 
surprised to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
place ; but, supposing it to be some one of the neighborhood in 
need of his assistance, he hastened down to yield it. 

On nearer approach, he was still more surprised at the singular- 
ity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, square-built old 
fellow, with thick, bushy hair, and a grizzled beard. His dress 
was of the antique Dutch fashion, — a cloth jerkin strapped round 
the waist ; several pairs of breeches (the outer one of ample volume), 
decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and bunches at 
the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout keg, that seemed 
full of liquor ; and made signs for Kip to approach, and assist him 
with the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this new 
acquaintance, Kip complied with his usual alacrity ; and, mutually 
relieving one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, appar- 
ently the dry bed of a mountain-torrent. As they ascended. Kip 
every now and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant thun- 
der, that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather cleft, 
between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged path conducted. 
He paused for an instant ; but, supposing it to be the muttering of 
one of those transient thunder-showers which often take place in 
mountain bights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they 
came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, surrounded by per- 
pendicular precipices, over the brinks of which impending trees 
shot their branches, so that you only caught glimpses of tlie azure 
sky and tlie bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip 
and his companion had labored on in silence; for though the for- 
mer marveled greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg 
of liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that inspired 
awe, and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheater, new objects of wonder pre- 
sented themselves. On a level spot in the center was a company 
of odd- looking personages playing at ninepins. They were 
dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion : some wore short doublets ; 
others jerkins, with long knives in their belts ; and most of them 
had enormous breeches, of similar style with tliat of the guide's. 
Their visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large beard, broad 



154 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



^ 



face, and small, piggish eyes ; the face of another seemed to con- 
sist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugar-loaf 
hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. They all had beards, of 
various shapes and colors. There was one who seemed to be the 
commander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a weather- 
beaten countenance : he wore a laced doublet, broad belt and 
hanger, high-crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high- 
heeled shoes, with roses on them. The whole group reminded 
Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor of 
Dominie Van Shaick, the village parson, and which had been 
brought over from Holland at the time of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to E-ip was, that though these 
folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the 
gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the 
most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Noth- 
ing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the 
balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the moun- 
tains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

As Bip and his companion approached them, they suddenly 
desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue- 
like gaze, and such strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, 
that his heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. 
His companion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
flagons, and made signs to him to wait on the company. He 
obeyed with fear and trembling. They quaffed the liquor in pro- 
found silence, and then returned to their game. 

By degrees, Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He even 
ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste the beverage, 
which he found had much of the flavor of excellent Hollands. 
He was naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to repeat 
the draught. One taste provoked another ; and he reiterated his 
visits to the flagon so often, that at length his senses were over- 
powered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually declined, 
and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence he had 
first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed his ej'-es. It was 
a bright, sunny morning. The birds were hopping and twitter- 
ing among the bushes ; and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and 
breasting the pure mountain-breeze. " Surely," though^ Rip, " I 
have not slept here all night." He recalled the occurrences 
before he fell asleep, — the strange man with a keg of liquor, 
the mountain-ravine, the wild retreat among the rocks, the woe- 
begone party at ninepins, the flagon. " Oh that flagon ! that 
wicked flagon ! " thought Rip. "What excuse shall I make to 
Dame Van Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun j but in place of the clean, well- 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 155 

oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the 
barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock 
worm-eaten. He now suspected that the grave roisters of the 
mountain had put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 
liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared ; 
but he might have strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. 
He whistled after him, and shouted his name; but all in vain. 
The echoes repeated his whistle and shout ; but no dog was to be 
seen. 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's gam- 
bol, and, if he met with any of the party, to demand his dog and 
gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, 
and wanting in his usual activity. "These mountain-beds do 
not agree with me," thought Rip 5 " and, if this frolic should lay 
me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall have a blessed time 
with Dame Van Winkle." With some difficulty he got down 
into the glen. He found the gully up which he and his compan- 
ion had ascended the preceding evening; but, to his astonishment, 
a mountain-stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock 
to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, how- 
ever, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his toilsome 
way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and 
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape-vines that 
twisted their coils or tendrils from tree to tree, and spread a kind 
of network in his path. 

At length, he reached to where the ravine had opened through 
the cliffs to the amphitheater ; but no traces of such opening re- 
mained. The rocks presented a high, impenetrable wall, over 
wdiich the torrent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 
fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows of the sur- 
rounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. 
He again called and whistled after his. dog. He was only an- 
swered by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in 
air about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and scoff at the 
poor man's perplexities. What was to be done ? The morning 
was passing away, and Rip felt famished for want of his break- 
fast. He grieved to give up his dog and gun ; he dreaded to 
meet his wife : but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty firelock, and, 
with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, turned his steps home- 
ward. 

As he approached the village, he met a number of people, but 
none wdiom he knew ; which somewhat surprised him, for he had 
thought himself acquainted with every one in the countrj^ round. 
Their dress, too, was of a different fashion from that to which he 



156 ENGLISH LITERATtJEE, 

was accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks of 
surprise, and, whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably 
stroked their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture in- 
duced Eip involuntarily to do the same ; when, to his astonish- 
ment, he found his beard had grown a foot long. 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop of 
strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and pointing 
at his gray beard. The dogs too, not one of which he recognized 
for an old acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very 
village was altered: it was larger and more populous. There 
were rows of houses which he had never seen before ; and those 
which had been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange 
names were over the doors, strange faces at the windows ; every 
thing was strange. His mind now misgave him : he began to 
doubt whether both he and the world around him were not be- 
witched. Surely this was his native village, which he had left 
but the day before. There stood the Catskill Mountains; there 
ran the silver Hudson at a distance ; there was every hill and 
dale precisely as it had always been. Kip was sorel}'' perplexed. 
^' That flagon last night," thought he, " has addled my poor head 
sadly." 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to his own 
house, which he approached with silent awe, expecting every mo- 
ment to hear the shrill voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found 
the house gone to decay, the roof fallen in, the windows shat- 
tered, and the doors off the hinges. A half-starved dog that 
looked like Wolf was skulking about it. E,ip called him by 
name ; but the cur snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. 
This was an unkind cut indeed. "My very dog," sighed poor 
Kip, " has forgotten me ! " 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth. Dame Van 
Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, forlorn, 
and apparently abandoned. This desolateness overcame all his 
connubial fears. He called loudly for his wife and children. 
The lonely chambers rang for a moment with his voice ; and then 
all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, — the 
village inn ; but it, too, was gone. A large, rickety^ wooden 
building stood in its place, with great gaping windows (some of 
them broken, and mended with old hats and petticoats) ; and over 
the door was painted, " The Union Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." 
Instead of the great tree that used to shelter the quiet little 
Dutch inn of yore, there now was reared a tall, naked pole, with 
something on the top that looked like a red nightcap 5 and from 
it was fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 
stars and stripes. All this was strange and incomprehensible. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 157 

He recognized on the sign, however, the ruby face of King 
George, under which he had smoked so many a peaceful pipe ; but 
even this was singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was 
changed for one of blue and buif ; a sword was held in the hand 
instead of a scepter ; the head was decorated with a cocked hat ; 
and underneath was painted in large characters, Gen. Wash- 
ington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none 
that E-ip recollected. The very character of the people seemed 
changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about 
it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. 
He looked in vain for the sage JSTicholas Vedder, with his broad 
face, double chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco- 
smoke instead of idle speeches ; or Van Bummel, the school- 
master, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In 
phice of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his pockets 
full of hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently about rights of 
citizens, elections, members of Congress, liberty. Bunker's Hill, 
heroes of seventy-six, and other words, which were a perfect 
Babylonish jargon to the bewildered Van Winkle. 

The appearance of E-ip, with his long, grizzled beard, his rusty 
fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of women and 
children at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the tavern 
politicians. Tliey crowded round him, eying him from head to 
foot with great curiosity. The orator bustled up to him, and, 
drawing him partly aside, inquired on which side he voted. 
E,ip stared in vacant stupidity. Another short but husj little 
fellow pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
his ear whether he was Federal or Democrat. E.ip was 
equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a knowing, 
self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked hat, made his 
way through the crowd, putting them to the right and left 
with his elbows as he passed, and planting himself before Van 
AVinkle, with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane, his 
keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, into his very soul, 
demanded in an austere tone what brought him to the election 
with a gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels ; and whether 
he meant to breed a riot in the village. " Alas ! gentlemen," 
cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor, quiet man ; a 
native of the place ; and a loyal subject of the king, God bless 
him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the bystanders, — "A Tory, a 
Tory, a spy, a refugee ! Hustle him ! Away with him ! " It was 
with great difficulty that the self-important man in the cocked 
hat restored order ; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity 
of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what he came 



158 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

there for, and whom he was seeking. The poor man humbly 
assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in 
search of some of his neighbors who used to keep about the 
tavern. 

" Well, who are they ? Name them." 

E.ip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, "Where's 
Nicholas Vedder ? " 

There was a silence for a little while ; when an old man replied 
in a thin, piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, he is dead and 
gone these eighteen years ! There was a wooden tombstone in 
the churchyard that used to tell all about him ; but that's rotten 
and gone too." 

" Where's Brom Dutcher ? " 

" Oh ! he went off to the army in the beginning of the war. 
Some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point ; others 
say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of Antony's Nose. I 
don't know : he never came back again." 

" Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster ? " 

" He went off to the wars too ; was a great militia general ; and 
is now in Congress." 

Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes in his 
home and friends, and finding himself thus alone in the world. 
Every answer puzzled him, too, by treating of such enormous 
lapses of time, and of matters which he could not understand, — 
war. Congress, Ston}'' Point. He had no courage to ask after any 
more friends, but cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know 
Eip Van Winkle ? " 

•' Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, — " oh, to 
be sure ! That's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against the 
tree." 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of himself as he 
went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and certainly as 
ragged. The poor fellow was now completely confounded. He 
doubted his own identity, and whether he was himself, or another 
man. In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the cocked 
hat demanded who he was, and what was his name. 

" God knows ! " exclaimed he, at his wits' end. " I'm not 
myself: I'm somebody else. That's me yonder — no — that's 
somebody else got into my shoes. I was myself last niglit ; but 
I fell asleep on the mountain ; and they've changed mj'' gun ; and 
every thing's clians^ed ; and I'm changed: and I can't tell what's 
my name, or wlio I am ! " 

The bystanders began now to look at each other, nod, wink 
significantly, and tap their fingers against their foreheads. 
There was a whisper, also, about securing the gun, and keeping 
the old fellow from doing mischief j at the very suggestion of 



WASHINGTON lEYING. 159 

which the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with some 
precipitation. 

At this critical moment, a fresh, comely woman pressed through 
the throng to get a peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a 
chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, began 
to cry. " Hush, Rip ! " cried she, — " hush, you little fool ! The 
old man won't hurt you." The name of the child, the air of the 
mother, the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recollec- 
tions in his mind. " What is your name, my good woman ? " 
asked he. 

'■ Judith Gardenier." 

" And your father's name ? " 

" Ah, poor man ! Rip Van Winkle was his name ; but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, and 
never has been lieard of since. His dog came home without him ; 
but whether he shot himself, or was carried away by the Indians^ 
nobody can tell. I was then but a little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it with a 
faltering voice : — 

" Where's your mother ? " 

" Oh ! she, too, had died but a short time since. She broke a 
blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New-England peddler." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He 
caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am your 
father ! " cried he, — " young Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip 
Van Winkle now ! Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle ? " 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and, peering under it 
in his face for a moment, exclaimed, — 

"Sure enough ! It is Rip Van Winkle ! it is himself! Wel- 
come home again, old neighbor! Why, where have you been 
these twenty long years ? 

Rip's story was soon told ; for the whole twenty years had been to 
him but as one night. The neighbors stared when they heard 
it : some were seen to wink at each other, and put their tongues 
in their cheeks ; and the self-important man in the cocked hat, 
who, when the alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed 
down the corners of his mouth, and shook his head ; upon which 
there was a general shaking of the head throughout the assem- 
blage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old Peter 
Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up the road. He 
was a descendant of the historian of that name, who wrote one 
of the earliest accounts of the province. Peter was the most 
ancient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in aU the won- 



160 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

derful events and traditions of the neigliborliood. He recollected 
E,ip at once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, handed 
down from his ancestor the historian, that the Catskill Mountains 
had always been haunted by strange beings; that it was 
affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the first discoverer of 
the river and country, kept a kind of vigil there every twenty 
years with his crew of " The Half-Moon," being permitted in this 
way to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and to keep a guardian 
eye on the river and the great city called by his name ; that his 
father had once seen them in their old Dutch dresses playing at 
ninepins in a hollow of the mountain ; and that he himself had 
heard, one summer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up, and 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. E,ip's 
daughter took him home to live with her. She had a snug, well- 
furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom 
E-ip recollected for one of the urchins that used to climb upon 
his neck. As to Rip's son and heir, who was the ditto of him- 
self, seen leaning against the tree, he was employed to work on 
the farm, but evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to any 
thing but his business. 

E/ip now resumed his old walks and habits. He soon found 
many of his former cronies, though all rather the worse for the 
wear and tear of time ; and preferred making friends among the 
rising generation, with wliom he soon grew into great favor. 
Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at that happy 
age when a man can be idle with impunity, he took his place 
once more on the bench at the inn-door, and was reverenced as 
one of the patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
times " before the war." It was some time before he could get 
into the regular track of gossip, or could be made to comprehend 
the strange events that had taken place during his torpor, — how 
that there had been a revolutionary war ; that the country had 
thrown off the yoke of Old England; and that, instead of being 
a subject of his Majesty George the Third, he was now a free 
citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was no politician : 
the changes of states and empires made but little impression on 
him. But there was one species of despotism under which he had 
long groaned, and that was petticoat government. Happily, that 
was at an end. He had got his neck out of the yoke of matri- 
mony, and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever her 
name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, shrugged 
his shoulders, and cast up his eyes; which might pass either 



WASHINGTON lEVING. 161 

for an expression of resignation to his fate^ or joy at his deliver- 
ance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived at Mr. 
Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to vary on some 
points every time he told it; which was, doubtless, owing to his 
having so recently awaked. It at last settled down precisely to 
the tale I have related ; and not a man, woman, or child, in the 
neighborhood, but knew it by heart. Some always pretended to 
doubt the reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his 
head, and that this was one point on which he always remained 
fliglity. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
gave it full credit. Even to this day, they never hear a thunder- 
storm of a summer afternoon about the Catskill, but they say 
Hendrick Hudson and ]iis crew are at their game of ninepins ; 
and it is a common wisli of all henpecked husbands in the neigh- 
borhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Eip Van Winkle's flagon. 



THE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 

"Little dogs and all." — Lear. 

In giving an account of the arrival of Lady Lillycraft at the 
hall, I ought to have mentioned the entertainment which I 
derived from witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and the 
disposing of her retinue. There is something extremely amusing 
to me in the number of factitious wants, the loads of imaginary 
conveniences, but real encumbrances, with which the luxurious 
are apt to burden themselves. I like to watch the whimsical stir 
and display about one of these petty progresses, — the number 
of robustious footmen and retainers of all kinds bustling about, 
with looks of infinite gravity and importance, to do almost 
nothing ; the number of heavy trunks and parcels and band- 
boxes belonging to my lady ; and the solicitude exliibited about 
some humble, odd-looking box, by my lady's maid ; the cushions 
piled in a carriage to make a soft seat still softer, and to prevent 
the dreaded possibility of a jolt ; the. smelling-bottles, the cordials, 
the basket of biscuit and fruit, the new publications (all pro- 
vided to guard against hunger, fatigue, or ennui) ; the led horses 
to vary the mode of traveling, — and all these preparations and 
parade to move, perhaps, some very good-for-nothing personage 
about a little space of earth. I do not mean to apply the latter 
part of these observations to Lady Lillycraft, for whose simple 
kind-heartedness I have a very great respect, and who is really 
11 



162 ENGLISH LITERATTJEE. 

a most amiable and worthy being. I can not refrain, however, 
from mentioning some of the motley retinue she has brought 
with her ; and which, indeed, bespeak the overflowing kindness 
of her nature, which requires her to be surrounded with objects 
on which to lavish it. 

In the first place, her ladj^ship has a pampered coachman, with 
a red face, and cheeks tliat hang down like dew-laps. He evi- 
dently domineers over her a little with respect to the fat horses ; 
and only drives out when he thinks proper, and when he thinks 
it will be " good for the cattle." 

She has a favorite page to attend upon her person, — a hand- 
some boy of about twelve years of age, but a mischievous varlet, 
very much spoiled, and in a fair way to be good for nothing. He 
is dressed in green, with a profusion of gold cord and gilt buttons 
about his clothes. She always has one or two attendants of the 
kind, who are replaced by others as soon as they grow to fourteen 
years of age. She has brought two dogs with her also, out of 
a number of pets which she maintains at home. One is a fat 
spaniel, called Zephyr ; though Heaven defend me from such a 
zephyr ! He is fed out of all shape and comfort ; his eyes are near- 
ly strained out of his head ; he wheezes with corpulency, and 
can not walk without great difficulty. The other is a little, old, 
gray, muzzled curmudgeon, with an unhappy eye, that kindles like 
a coal if you only look at him; his nose turns up ; his mouth is 
drawn into wrinkles, so as to show his teeth : in short, he has 
altogether the look of a dog far gone in misanthropy, and totally 
sick of the world. When he walks, he has his tail curled up so 
tight, that it seems to lift his feet from the ground ; and he seldom 
makes use of more than three legs at a time, keeping the other 
drawn up as a reserve. This last wretch is called Beauty. 

These dogs are full of elegant ailments unknown to vulgar 
dogs, and are petted and nursed by Lady Lillycraft with the 
tenderest kindness. They are pampered and fed with delicacies 
by their fellow-minion, the page ; but their stomachs are weak 
and out of order, so that they can not eat; though I have now 
and then seen the page give them a mischievous pinch, or thwack 
over the head, when his mistress was not by. They have cush- 
ions for their express use, on which they lie before the fire, and 
yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is the least draught of 
air. When any one enters the room, they make a tyrannical 
barking that is absolutely deafening. They are insolent to all 
the other dogs of the establishment. There is a noble stag- 
hound, a great favorite of the squire, who is a privileged visitor 
to the parlor : but, the moment he makes his appearance, these 
intruders fly at him with furious rage ; and I have admired the 
sovereign indifference and contempt with which he seems to look 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 163 

down upon his puny assailants. "When her ladyship drives out, 
these dogs are generally carried with her to take the air; when 
they look out of each window of the carriage, and bark at all 
vulgar pedestrian dogs. These dogs are a continual source of 
misery to the household, as they are always in the way ; and they 
every now and then get their toes trod on, and then there is a 
yelping on their part, and a loud lamentation on the part of their 
mistress, that fill the room with clamor and confusion. 



BIOGRAPHY OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

There are few writers for whom the reader feels such personal 
kindness as for Oliver Groldsmith ; for few have so eminently pos- 
sessed the magic gifb of identifying themselves with their writings. 
We read his character in every page, and grow into familiar inti- 
macy with him as we read. The artless benevolence that beams 
throughout his works ; the whimsical yet amiable views of human 
life and human nature ; the unforced humor, blending so happily 
with good feeling and good sense, and singularly dashed at times 
with a pleasing melancholy ; even the very nature of his mellow 
and flowing and softly-tinted style, — all seem to bespeak his moral 
as well as his intellectual qualities, and make us love the man at 
the same time that we admire the author. While the productions 
of writers of loftier pretension and more sounding names are suf- 
fered to molder on our shelves, those of Goldsmith are cherished 
and laid in our bosoms. We do not quote them with ostentation ; 
but they mingle with our minds, sweeten our tempers, and har- 
monize our thoughts: they put us in good humor with ourselves 
and with the world ; and, in so doing, they make us happier and 
better men. 

An acquaintance with the private biography of Goldsmith lets 
us into the secret of his gifted pages. We there discover them 
to be little more than transcripts of his own heart, and picturings 
of his fortunes. There he shows himself the same kind, artless, 
good-humored, excursive, sensible, whimsical, intelligent being 
that he appears in his writings. Scarcely an adventure or char- 
acter is given in his works that may not be traced to his own 
partj^-colored story. Many of his most ludicrous scenes and ridic- 
ulous incidents have been drawn from his own blunders and mis- 
chances ; and he seems really to have been buffeted into almost 
every maxim imparted b}'- him for the instruction of his reader. 

Oliver Goldsmith was born on the 10th of November, 1728, at 
the hamlet of Pallas, or Pallasmore, county of Longford, in Ire- 



164 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

land. He sprang from a respectaMe, but by no means a thrifty 
stock. Some families seem to inherit kindliness and incompe- 
tency, and to hand down virtue and poverty from generation to 
generation. Such was the case with the Goldsmiths. " They 
were always," according to their own accounts, '^ a strange family : 
they rarely acted like other people : their hearts were in the right 
place, but their heads seemed to be doing any thing but what they 
ought." " They were remarkable," says another statement, " for 
their worth, but of no cleverness in the ways of the world." Oli- 
ver Goldsmith will be found faithfully to inherit the virtues and 
weaknesses of his race. 

His father, the Rev. Charles Goldsmith, with hereditary im- 
providence, married wdien very young and very poor, and starved 
along for several years on a small country curacy and the assist- 
ance of his wife's friends. His whole income, eked out hy the 
produce of some fields which he farmed, and of some occasional 
duties performed for his wife's uncle, the rector of an adjoining 
parish, did not exceed forty pounds : — 

" And passing rich with forty pounds a year." 

He inhabited an old, half-rustic mansion, that stood on a rising 
ground in a rough, lonely part of the country overlooking a low 
tract occasionally flooded by the River Inny. In this house Gold- 
smith was born : and it was a birthplace worthy of a poet ; for, by 
all accounts, it was haunted ground. A tradition handed down 
among the neighboring peasantry states, that, in after-years, the 
house, remaining for some time untenanted, went to decay, the 
roof fell in, and it became so lonely and forlorn as to be a resort 
for the " good people," or fairies, who, in Ireland, are supposed to 
delight in old, crazy, deserted mansions for their midnight revels. 
All attempts to repair it were in vain : the fairies battled stoutly 
to maintain possession. A huge, misshapen hobgoblin used to be- 
stride the house every evening with an immense pair of jackboots, 
which, in his eiforts at hard riding, he would thrust through the 
roof, kicking to pieces all the work of the j)receding day. The 
house was therefore left to its fate, and went to ruin. 

Such is the popular tradition about Goldsmith's birthplace. 
About two years after his birth, a change came over the- circum- 
stances of his father. By the death of his wife's uncle,vhe suc- 
ceeded to the rectory of Kilkenny West ; and, abandoning the 
old goblin mansion, he removed to Lissoy, in the county of West- 
meath, where he occupied a farm of seventy acres, situated on 
the skirts of that ]3retty little village. 

This was the scene of Goldsmith's boyhood, — the little world 
whence he drew many of those pictures, rural and domestic, 
whimsical and touching, which abound throughout his works, and 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 165 

wliich appeal so eloquently both to tlie fancy and the heart. Lis- 
soy is confidently cited as the original of his " Auburn " in " The 
Deserted Village." His father's establishment — a mixture of 
farm and parsonage — furnished hints, it is said, for the rural econ- 
omy of " The Vicar of Wakefield ; " and his father himself, with 
liis learned simplicity, his guileless wisdom, his amiable piety, and 
utter ignorance of the world, has been exquisitely portrayed in 
the worthy Dr. Primrose. Let us pause for a moment, and draw 
from Goldsmith's writings one or two of those pictures, which, 
under feigned names, represent his father and his family, and the 
happy fireside of liis childish days. 

" My father," says the " Man in Black," — who in some respects 
is a counterpart of Goldsmith himself, — '' my father, the younger 
son of a good family, was possessed of a small living in the church. 
His education was above his fortune, and his generosity greater 
than his education. Poor as he was, he had his flatterers poorer 
than himself. Por every dinner he gave them, they returned him 
an equivalent in praise ; and this was all he wanted. The same 
ambition that actuates a monarch at the head of his army influ- 
enced my father at the head of his table. He told the story of the 
ivy-tree, and that was laughed at; he repeated the jest of the 
two scholars and one pair of breeches, and the company laughed 
at that: but the stor}^ of Taffy in the sedan-chair was sure to set 
the table in a roar. Thus his pleasure increased in proportion 
to the pleasure he gave. He loved all the world ; and he fancied 
all the world loved him. 

" As his fortune was but small, he lived up to the very extent 
of it. He had no intention of leaving his children money ; for 
that was dross. He resolved they should have learning; for 
learning, he used to observe, was better than silver or gold. Por 
this purpose, he undertook to instruct us himself, and took as 
much care to form our morals as to improve our understanding. 
We were told that universal benevolence was what first cemented 
society. We were taught to consider all the wants of mankind 
as our own ; to reg^ard the huynan face divine with affection and 
esteem. He wound us up to be mere machines of pity, and ren- 
dered us incapable of withstanding the slightest impulse made 
either by real or fictitious distress. In a word, we were perfectly 
instructed in the art of giving away thousands before we were 
taught the necessary qualifications of getting a farthing." 

In " The Deserted Village " we have another picture of his 
father and his father's fireside : — 

" His house was known to all the vagi-ant train : 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his giiest, 
Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; 



166 ENGLISH LITERATTJEB. 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away. 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe: 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began.'' 

The family of the worthy pastor consisted of five sons and 
three daughters. Henry, the eldest, was the good man's pride 
and hope ; and he tasked his slender means to the utmost in edu- 
cating him for a learned and distinguished career. Oliver was 
the second son, and seven years younger than Henry, who 
was the guide and protector of his childhood, and to whom he 
was most tenderly attached throughout life. 

Oliver's education began when he was about three years old ; 
that is to say, he was gathered under the wings of one of those 
good old motherly dames, found in every village, who cluck to- 
gether the whole callow brood of the neighborhood to teach them 
their letters, and keep them out of harm's vfay. Mistress Eliza- 
beth Delap (for that was her name) flourished in this capacity for 
upwards of fifty years; and it was the pride and boast of her 
declining days, when nearly ninety years of age, that she was the 
first that had put a book (doubtless a hornbook) into Goldsmith's 
hands. Apparently he did not much profit by it ; for she con- 
fessed he was one of the dullest boys she had ever dealt with, in- 
somuch that she had sometimes doubted whether it was possible 
to make any thing of him, — a common case with imaginative chil- 
dren, who are apt to be beguiled from the dry abstractions of ele- 
mentary study by the picturings of the fancy. 

At six years of age he passed into the hands of the village 
schoolmaster, one Thomas (or, as he was commonly and irrever- 
ently named, Paddy) Byrne, — a capital tutor for a poet. He had 
been educated for a pedagogue, but had enlisted in the army, 
served abroad during the wars of Queen Anne's time, and risen to 
the rank of quartermaster of a regiment in Spain. At the return 
of peace, having no longer exercise for the sword, he resumed the 
ferule, and drilled the urchin populace of Lissoy. Goldsmith is 
supposed to have had him and his school in view in the following 
sketch in his " Deserted Village : " — 

" Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, — 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The vihage master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view : 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 



WASHINGTON lEYING. 167 

Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes (for many a joke had he); 
Full well the busy wliisper, circling round, 
Conveyed tiie dismal tidings when he frowned. 
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew: 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage; 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; 
For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still: 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew." 

There are certain wliimsical traits in the character of Byrne 
not given in the foregoing sketch. He was fond of talking of his 
vagabond wanderings in foreign lands; and had brought with him 
from the wars a world of campaigning stories, of which he was 
generally the hero, and which he would deal forth to his wonder- 
ing scholars when he ought to have been teaching them their les- 
sons. These traveler's tales had a powerful eifect upon the vivid 
imagination of Goldsmith, and awakened an unconquerable pas- 
sion for wandering, and seeking adventure. Byrne was, moreover, 
of a romantic vein, and exceedingly superstitious. He was deeply 
versed in the fairy superstitions which abound in Ireland; all which 
he professed implicitly to believe. Under his tuition. Goldsmith 
soon became almost as great a proficient in fairy lore. From this 
branch of good-for-nothing knowledge, his studies, by an easy 
transition, extended to the histories of robbers, pirates, smugglers, 
and the whole race of Irish rogues and rapparees. Everj^ thing, 
in short, that savored of romance, fable, and adventure, was con- 
genial to his poetic mind, and took instant root there ; but the 
slow plants of useful knowledge were apt to be overrun, if not 
choked, by the weeds of his quick imagination. 

Another trait of his motley preceptor, Byrne, was a disposition 
to dabble in poetry ; and this, likewise, was caught by his pupil. 
Before he was eight years old, Goldsmith had contracted a habit 
of scribbling verses on small scraps of paper, which, in a little 
while, he would throw into the fire. A few of these sib3dline 
leaves, however, were rescued from the flames, and conveyed to his 
mother. The good woman read them with a mother's delight, 
and saw at once that her son was a genius and a poet. From 
that time, she beset her husband with solicitations to give the boy 
an education suitable to his talents. The worthy man was already 
straitened by the costs of instruction of his eldest son Henrj^, 
and had intended to bring his second son up to a trade. But the 
mother would listen to no such thing : as usual, her influence -pve- 
vailed ; and Oliver, instead of being instructed in some humble 



168 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

but cheerful and gainful handicraft, was devoted to poverty and 
the Muse. 

A severe attack of the small-pox caused him to be taken from 
under the care of his story-telling preceptor, Byrne. His malady 
had nearly proved fatal ; and his face remained pitted through 
life. On his recovery, he was placed under the charge of the E-ev. 
Mr. Griffin, schoolmaster of Elphin, in Roscommon ; and became 
an inmate in the house of his uncle, John Goldsmith, Esq., of 
Ballyonghter, in that vicinity. He now entered upon studies of 
a higher order, but without making any uncommon progress. 
Still a careless, easy facility of disposition, an amusing eccentri- 
city of manners, and a vein of quiet and peculiar humor, rendered 
him a general favorite ; and a trifling incident soon induced his 
uncle's family to concur in his mother's opinion of his genius. 

A number of young folks had assembled at his uncle's to dance. 
One of the company, named Cummings, played on the violin. 
In the course of the evening, Oliver undertook a hornpipe. His 
short and clumsy figure, and his face pitted and discolored with 
the small-pox, rendered him a ludicrous figure in the eyes of the 
musician, who made merry at his expense, dubbing him his little 
jEsop. Goldsmith was nettled by the jest, and, stopping short in 
the hornpipe, exclaimed, — 

" Om* herald hath proclaimed this saying, — 
See ^sop dancing, and his monkey playing." 

The repartee was thought wonderful for a boy of nine years 
old ; and Oliver became, forthwith, the wit and the bright genius 
of the family. It was thought a pity he should not receive the 
same advantages with his elder brother Henry, who had been sent 
to the university ; and, as his father's circumstances would not 
afford it, several of his relatives, spurred on by the representa- 
tions of his mother, agreed to contribute towards the expense. 
The greater part, however, was borne by his uncle, the Eev. 
Thomas Cantarine. This worthy man had been the college com- 
panion of Bishop Berkeley, and was possessed of moderate means, 
holding the living of Carrick-on-Shannon. He had married the 
sister of Goldsmith's father, but was now a widower, with an only 
child, — a daughter, named Jane. Cantarine was a kind-hearted 
man, with a generosity be^^ond his means. He took Goldsmith 
into favor from his infancy. His daughter Jane, two years older 
than the poet, was his early playmate ; -and Uncle Cantarine con- 
tinued to the last one of his most active, unwavering, and gener- 
ous friends. 

Fitted out in a great measure by this considerate relative, Oli- 
ver was now transferred to schools of a higher order to prepare 
him for the university, — first to one at Athlone, kept by the Kev. 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 169 

Mr. Campbell ; and, at the end of two years, to one at Edge- 
worthstown, under the superintendence of the E,ev. Patrick 
Hughes. Even at these schools, his proficiency does not appear 
to have been brilliant. He was indolent and careless, however, 
rather than dull ; and, on the whole, appears to have been well 
thought of by his teachers. In his studies, he inclined towards 
the Latin poets and historians ; relished Ovid and Horace, and 
delighted in Livy. He exercised himself with pleasure in read- 
ing and translating Tacitus ; and was brought to pay attention to 
style in his compositions by a reproof from his brother Henry, to 
whom he had written brief and confused letters, and who told 
him in reply, that, if he had but little to say, to endeavor to say 
that little well. 

The career of his brother Henry at the university was enough 
to stimulate him to exertion. He seemed to be realizing all his 
father's hopes, and was winning collegiate honors that the good 
man considered indicative of his future success in life. 

In the mean while, Oliver, if not distinguished among his teach- 
ers, was popular among his schoolmates. He had a thoughtless 
generosity extremely captivating to j^oung hearts. His temjaer 
was quick and sensitive, and easily oifended ; but his anger was 
momentary, and it was impossible for him to harbor resentment. 
He was the leader of all boyish sports and athletic amusements, 
especially ball-playing ; and he was foremost in all mischievous 
pranks. Many years afterward, an old man, Jack Fitzsimmons, 
one of the directors of the sports, and keeper^, of the ball-count, at 
Ballymahon, used to boast of having been schoolmate of "• Noll 
Goldsmith," as he called him ; and would dwell with vain-glory on 
one of their exploits in robbing the orchards of Tirlicken, an old 
family residence of Lord Annaby. 

The exploit, however, had nearly involved disastrous conse- 
quences ; for the crew of juvenile depredators were captured, like 
Shakspeare and his deer-stealing colleagues : and nothing but 
tlie respectability of Goldsmith's connections saved him from the 
punishment that would have awaited more plebeian delinquents. 

An amusing incident is related as occurring in Goldsmith's last 
journey homeward from Edge worth stown. His father's house 
was about twenty miles distant : the road lay through a rough 
country, impassable for carriages. Goldsmith procured a horse 
for the journey ; and a friend furnished him with a guinea for 
traveling-expenses. He was but a stripling of sixteen ; and be- 
ing thus suddenly mounted on horseback, with money in his 
pocket, it is no wonder that his head was turned. He determined 
to play the man, and to spend his money in independent travel- 
er's style. Accordingl}^, instead of pushing directly for home, he 
halted for the night at the little town of Andagh, and, accosting 



170 - ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

the first person he met, inquired with somewhat of a consec|uen- 
tial air for the best house in the place. Unluckily, the person 
he had accosted was one Kelly, a notorious wag, who was quar- 
tered in a family of one Mr. Featherdtone, a gentleman of for- 
tune. Amused with the self-consequence of the stripling, and 
willing to pay off a practical joke at his expense, he directed him 
to what was literally " the best house in the place ; " namely, the 
family mansion of Mr. Featherstone. Goldsmith, accordingly, 
rode up to what he supposed to be an inn ; ordered his horse to be 
taken to the stable ; walked into the parlor, seated himself by the 
fire, and demanded what he could have for supper. On ordinary 
occasions, he was diffident, and even awkward in his manners : but 
here he was at ease in his inn ; and he felt called upon to show his 
manhood, and enact the experienced traveler. His person was 
by no means calculated to play oft' his pretensions ; for he was 
short and thick, with a pock-marked face, and an air and carriage 
by" no means of a distinguished cast. The owner of the house, 
however, soon discovered his whimsical mistake, and, being a man 
of humor, determined to indulge it, especially as he accidentally 
learned that this intruding guest was the son of an old acquaint- 
ance. 

Accordingly, Goldsmith was " fooled to the top of his bent," 
and permitted to have full sway throughout the evening. Never 
was schoolboy more elated. When supper was served, he most 
condescendingly insisted that the landlord, his wife and daughter, 
should partake ; and ordered a bottle of wine to crown the repast, 
and benefit the house. His last flourish was on going to bed, 
Avhen he gave especial orders to have a hot cake at breakfast. 
His confusion and dismay on discovering, the next morning, that 
he had been swaggering in this free-and-easy way in the house 
of a private gentleman, may be readily conceived. True to his 
habit of turning the events of his life to literary account, we find 
this chapter of ludicrous blunders and cross-purposes dramatized 
many years afterward in his admirable comedy of " She Stoops to 
Conquer ; or, The Mistakes of a Night." Chap. I. 



HISTORY OF NEW YORK. 
DESCRIPTION OF THE WORLD. 

AccoEDiisrG to the best authorities, the world in which we dwell 
is a huge, opaque, reflecting, inanimate mass, floating in the vast 
ethereal ocean of infinite space. It has the form of an orange, 
being an oblate spheroid curiously flattened at opposite parts foi* 



WASHINGTON IRVING. • 171 

the insertion of two imaginary poles, which are supposed to pene- 
trate, and unite at the center; thus forming an axis on which 
the mighty orange turns with a regular diurnal revolution. 

The transitions of light and darkness, whence proceed the 
alternations of day and night, are produced by this diurnal revolu- 
tion, successively presenting the different parts of the earth to 
the rays of the sun. The latter is, according to the best, that is 
to say the latest accounts, a luminous or fiery body of a prodi- 
gious magnitude, from which this world is driven by a centrifugal 
or repelling power, and to which it is drawn by a centripetal or 
attractive force, otherwise called the attraction of gravitation ; 
the combination, or rather the counteraction, of these two oppos- 
ing impulses, producing a circular and annual revolution. Hence 
result the different seasons of the year ; viz., spring, summer, 
autumn, and winter. 

This I believe to be the most approved modern theory on the 
subject: though there be many philosophers who have enter- 
tained very different opinions ; some, too, of them entitled to 
much deference from their great antiquity and illustrious charac- 
ter. Thus it was advanced by some of the ancient sages, that 
the earth was an extended plain, supported by vast pilhirs ; and 
b}?- others, that it rested on the head of a snake or the back of a 
huge tortoise : but, as they did not provide a resting-place for 
either the pillars or the tortoise, the whole theory fell to the 
ground for want of proper foundation. 

The Brahmins assert that the heavens rest upon the earth, 
and the sun and moon swim therein like fishes in the water, 
moving from east to wesf; by day, and gliding along the edge of 
the horizon to their original stations during night : while, accord- 
ing to the puranas of India, it is a vast plain, encircled by 
seven oceans of milk, nectar, and other delicious liquids ; that it 
is studded with seven mountains, and ornamented in the center 
by a mountainous rock of burnished gold ; and that a great 
dragon occasionally swallows up the moon, which accounts for the 
phenomena of lunar eclipses. 

Besides these and many other equally sage opinions, we have 
the profound conjectures of Aboul Hassax-Aly, son of Al 
Khan, son of Aly, son of Abderrahman, son of Abdallah, son of 
Masoud-el-Hadheli, who is commonly called Masoudi, and sur- 
named Cothbiddin, but who takes the humble title of Laheb- 
ar-rasoul, which means the companion of the ambassador of 
God. He has written a universal history, entitled " Mourondge- 
ed-dharab ; or. The G-olden Meadows and the Mines of Precious 
Stones." In this valuable work he has related the history of the 
world, from the creation down to the moment of writing ; which 
was under the Khaliphat of Mothi Billah, in the month Dgiou- 



172 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

madi-el-aoual of the three hundred and thirty-sixth year of the 
Hegira, or flight of the Prophet. He informs us that the earth 
is a liuge bird ; Mecca and Medina constituting the head, Persia 
and India the right wing, the land of Eng the left wing, and 
Africa the tail. He informs us, moreover, that an earth has 
existed before the present (which he considers as a mere chicken 
of seven thousand years) ; that it has undergone divers deluges ; 
and that, according to the opinion of some well-informed Brah- 
mins of his acquaintance, it will be renovated every seventy thou- 
sandth hazarouam, each hazarouam consisting of twelve thousand 
years. 

These are a few of the many contradictory opinions of philoso- 
phers concerning the earth ; and we find that the learned have 
had equal perplexity as to the nature of the sun. Some of 
the ancient philosophers have affirmed that it is a vast wheel of 
brilliant fire ; others, that it is merely a mirror, or sphere, of trans- 
parent crystal ; and a third class, at the head of whom stands 
Anaxagoras, maintained that it was nothing but a huge ignited 
mass of iron or stone : indeed, he declared the heavens to be 
merely a vault of stone, and that the stars were stones whirled 
upward from the earth, and set on fire by the velocity of its 
revolutions. But I give little attention to the doctrines of this 
philosopher ; the people of Athens having fully refuted them by 
banishing him from their city, — a concise mode of answering 
unwelcome doctrines, much resorted to in former days. Another 
sect of philosophers do declare that certain fiery particles exhale 
constantly from the earth, which, concentrating in a single point 
of the firmament by day, constitute the sun ; but being scattered, 
and rambling about in the dark at night, collect in various jjoints, 
and form stars. These are regularly burnt out and extinguished, 
not unlike to the lamps in our streets ; and require a fresh supjDly 
of exhalatives for the next occasion. 

It is even recorded, that at certain remote and obscure periods, 
in consequence of a great scarcity of fuel, the sun has been com- 
pletely burnt out, and sometimes not rekindled for a month at a 
time, — a most melancholy circumstance, the ver}'- idea of which 
gave vast concern to Heraclitus, that worthy weeping philosopher 
of antiquity. In addition to these various speculations, it was 
tlie opinion of Herschel that the sun is a magnificent habitable 
abode ; the light it furnishes arising from certain empyreal, lumi- 
nous, or phosphoric clouds swimming in its transparent atmos- 
phere. 

But we will not enter further at present into the nature of 
the sun ; that being an inquiry not immediately necessary to the 
development of this history. Neither will we embroil ourselves 
in any more of the endless disputes of philosophers touching the 



WASHINGTON IRVING. 173 

form of this globe, but content ourselves with the theory 
advanced in the beginning of this chapter ; and will proceed to 
illustrate, by experiment, the complexity of motion therein 
ascribed to this our rotatory planet. 

Prof Von Poddingcoft (or Puddinghead, as the name may be 
rendered into English) was long celebrated in the University 
of Leyden for profound gravity of deportment, and a talent at 
going to sleep in the midst of examinations, to the infinite relief 
of his hopeful students, who thereby worked their way through 
college with great ease and little study. In the course of one 
of his lectures, the learned professor, seizing a bucket of water, 
swung it around his head at arm's-length ; the impulse with 
which he threw the vessel from him being a centrifugal force, 
the retention of his arm operating as a centripetal power, and the 
bucket, which was a substitute for the earth, describing a circular 
orbit round about the globular head and ruby visage of Prof 
Von Poddingcoft, which formed no bad representation of the 
sun. All of these particulars were duly explained to the class 
of gaping students around him. He apprised them, moreover, 
that the same principle of gravitation which retained the water 
in the bucket restrains the ocean from flying from the earth in 
its rapid revokitions ; and he further informed them, that, should 
the motion of tlie earth be suddenly checked, it would inconti- 
nently fall into the sun, through the centripetal force of gravita- 
tion, — a most ruinous event to this planet, and one which would 
also obscure, though it most probably would not extinguish, the 
solar luminary. An unlucky stripling, one of those vagrant 
geniuses who seem sent into the world merely to annoy men of 
the Puddinghead order, desirous of ascertaining the correctness 
of the experiment, suddenly arrested the arm of the professor 
just at the moment that the bucket was in its zenith, which 
immediately descended with astonishing precision upon the philo- 
sophic head of the instructor of youth. A hollow sound and 
a red-hot hiss attended the contact : but the theory was in the 
amplest manner illustrated, for tlie unfortunate bucket perished 
in the conflict ; but the blazing countenance of Prof. Von 
Poddingcoft emerged from amidst the waters, glowing fiercer 
than ever with unutterable indignation, whereby the students 
were marvelously edified, and departed considerably wiser than 
before. 

It is a mortifying circumstance, which greatly perplexes many 
a painstaking philosopher, that Nature often refuses to second his 
most profound and elaborate efforts ; so that, after having in- 
vented one of the most ingenious and natural theories imaginable, 
she will have the perverseness to act directly in the teeth of his 
system, and flatly contradict his most favorite positions. This is 



174 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

a manifest and unmerited grievance, since it throws the censure 
of the vulgar and unlearned entirely upon the philosopher ; 
whereas the fault is not to be ascribed to his theory, which is 
unquestionably correct, but to the waywardness of Dame Nature, 
who, with the proverbial fickleness of her sex, is continually 
indulging in coquetries and caprices, and seems really to take 
pleasure in violating all philosophic rules, and jilting the most 
learned and indefatigable of her adorers. Thus it happened 
with respect to the foregoing satisfactory explanation of the 
motion of our planet. It appears that the centrifugal force has 
long since ceased to operate, while its antagonist remains in undi- 
minished potency : the world, therefore, according to the theory 
as it originally stood, ought in strict propriety to tumble into the 
sun. Philosophers were convinced that it would do so, and awaited 
in anxious impatience the fulfillment of their prognostics. But 
the untoward planet pertinaciously continued her course, notwith- 
standing that she had reason, philosophy, and a whole university 
of learned professors, opposed to her conduct. The philosophers 
took this in very ill part ; and it is thought they would never have 
pardoned the slight and affront which they conceived put upon 
them by the world, had not a good-natured professor kindly offi- 
ciated as a mediator between the parties, and effected a reconcil- 
iation. 

Finding the world would not accommodate itself to the theory, 
he wisely determined to accommodate the theory to the world : 
he therefore informed his brother philosophers that the cir- 
cular motion of the earth round the sun was no sooner engen- 
dered by the conflicting impulses above described than it became 
a regular revolution, independejit of the causes which gave it 
origin. His learned bretliren readily joined in the opinion, being 
heartily glad of any explanation that would decently extricate 
them from their embarrassment ; and, ever since that memorable 
era, the world has been left to take her own course, and to revolve 
around the sun in such orbit as she thinks proper. chap. i. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHOENE. - 175 

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 

1804-1864. 

A writer of singular purity and simplicity. His -writings are principally denoted 
by their fine poetical imagery, originality of thought and expression. His" pleasant 
fancies are philosophical, and his keen i-eflections not too metaphysical. 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" Twice-told Tales; " " Our Old Home; " " Mosses from an Old Manse; " " The 
Scarlet Letter; " " The House of the Seven Gables; " " True Stories from History 
and Biography;" "The Blithedale Romance;" "A Wonder-Book for Boys and 
Girls, in 1852;" "The Snow-Image and other Twice-told Tales;" " Tanglewood 
Tales, for Boys and Girls; " " The Marble Faun; " " Passages from the American 
Note-Books of Nathaniel Hawthorne." 



A RILL FROM THE TOWN-PUMP. 

Scene, — The corner of two principal streets. The Town-Pu3IP talking through its 

nose. 

Noox by tlie north clock ! Noon by the east ! High noon, 
too, by these hot sunbeams, which fall scarcely aslope upon my 
head, and almost make the water bubble and smoke in the 
trough under my nose ! Truly, we public characters have a 
tough time of it ! And, among all the town-officers chosen at 
March meeting, where is he that sustains for a single year the 
burden of such manifold duties as are imposed in perpetuity 
upon the Town-Pump ? The title of ^^Town Treasurer " is right- 
fully mine, as guardian of the best treasure that the town has. 
The overseers of the poor ought to make me their chairman, 
since I provide bountifully for the pauper, without expense to 
him that pays taxes. I am at the head of the fire-department, 
and one of the physicians to the board of health. As a keeper 
of the peace, all water-drinkers will confess me equal to the 
constable. I perform some of the duties of the town-clerk by 
promulgating public notices when they are posted on my front. 
To speak within bounds, I am the chief person of the munici- 
pality, and exhibit, moreover, an admirable pattern to my brother- 
officers, by the cool, steady, upright, downright, and impartial 
discharge of my business, and the constancy with which I stand 
to my post. Summer or winter, nobody seeks me in vain : for, 
all day long, I am seen at the busiest corner, just above the 
market, stretching out my arms to rich and poor alike ; and at 
night I hold a lantern over my head, both to show where I am, 
and keep people out of the gutters. 



176 . ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

At this sultry noontide, I am cupbearer to the parched popu- 
lace, for whose benefit an iron goblet is chained to my waist. 
Like U dramseller on the mall at muster-day, I cry aloud to all 
and sundry, in my plainest accents, and at the very tiptop of my 
voice, " Here it is, gentlemen ! Here is the good liquor ! Walk 
up, walk up, gentlemen ! walk up, walk up ! Here is the superior 
stuff! Here is the unadulterated ale of Father Adam, — better 
than Cognac, Hollands, Jamaica, strong beer, or wine of any 
price ! here it is by the hogshead or the single glass, and not a 
cent to pay ! Walk up, gentlemen, walk up, and help your- 
selves ! " 

It were a pity if all this outcry should draw no customers. 
Here they come ! " A hot day, gentlemen ! Quaff, and away 
again, so as to keep yourselves in a nice cool sweat. You, my 
friend, will need another cupful to wash the dust out of your 
throat, if it be as thick there as it is on your cowhide shoes. I 
see that you have trudged half a score of miles to-day, and, 
like a wise man, have passed by the taverns, and stopped at the 
running brooks and well-curbs. Otherwise, betwixt heat without 
and fire within, you would have been burnt to a cinder, or melted 
down to nothing at all, in the fashion of a jelly-fish. Drink, and 
make room for that other fellow who seeks my aid to quench 
the fiery fever of last night's potations, which he drained from no 
cup of mine. Welcome, most rubicund sir ! You and I have 
been great strangers hitherto ; nor, to confess the truth, will my 
nose be anxious for a closer intimacy till the fumes of your 
breath be a little less potent. Mercy on you, man ! the water 
absolutely hisses down your red-hot gullet, and is converted quite 
to steam in the miniature Tophet which you mistake for a 
stomach. Fill again, and tell me, on the word of an honest toper, 
did you ever, in cellar, tavern, or any kind of a dram-shop, spend 
the price of your children's food for a swig half so delicious ? 
Now, for the first time these ten j^ears, you know the flavor of 
cold water. Good-b}^ ! and, whenever you are thirsty, remember 
that I keep a constant supply at the old stand. Who next ? 
O my little friend ! you are let loose from school, and come 
hither to scrub your blooming face, and drown the memory of 
certain taps of the ferule and other schoolboy troubles, in a 
draught from the Town-Pump. Take it, pure as the current of 
your young life ! Take it, and may your heart and tongue never 
be scorched with a fiercer thirst than now! There, my dear 
child, put down the cup, and yield your place to this elderly gen- 
tleman, who treads so tenderly over the paving-stones, that I 
suspect he is afraid of breaking them. What! he limps by 
without so much as thanking me ; as if my hospitable offers were 
meant only for people who have no wine-cellars. Well, well, sir, 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 177 

no harm done, I hope ! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter ; but, 
when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of 
mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it 
is all one to the Town-Pump. This thirsty dog, with his red 
tongue lolling out, does not scorn my hospitality, but stands on 
his hind-legs, and laps eagerly out of the trough. See how 
lightly he capers away again ! Jowler, did your worship ever 
have the gout ? . . . 

" Your pardon, good people ! I must interrupt my stream of 
eloquence, and spout forth a stream of water to replenish the 
trough for this teamster and his two j^oke of oxen, who have come 
from Topsfield, or somewhere along that w£ij. No part of my 
business is pleasanter than the watering of cattle. Look ! how 
rapidly they lower the water-mark on the sides of the trough, 
till their capacious stomachs are moistened with a gallon or two 
apiece, and they can afford time to breathe it in with sighs of calm 
enjoyment. i!iow tliej^ roll their quiet eyes around the brim of 
their monstrous drinking-vessel. An ox is your true toper. . . . 

" Ahem ! Dry work this speechifying, especially to an unprac- 
ticed orator. I never conceived till now what toil the temperance 
lecturers undergo for my sake. Hereafter, they shall have the 
business to themselves. Do, some kind Christian, pump a stroke 
or two, just to wet my whistle. Thank you, sir ! My dear 
hearers, when the world shall have been regenerated by my 
instrumentality, you will collect your useless vats and liquor- 
casks into one great pile, and make a bonfire in honor of the 
Town-Pump. And when I shall have decayed, like my prede- 
cessors, then, if you revere my memorj^, let a marble fountain, 
richly sculptured, take my place upon the spot. Such monu- 
ments should be erected everywhere, and inscribed with the 
names of the distinguished champions of my cause." . . . 

One o'clock ! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, 
I may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl 
of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. 
Maj^ she draw a husband while drawing her water, as Rachel did 
of old ! " Hold out your vessel, my dear ! There it is, full to the 
brim : so now run home, peeping at your sweet image in the 
pitcher as you go ; and forget not in a glass of my own liquor to 

drink ' Success to the Town-Pump!'" 

From " Twice-told Tales." 
12 



178 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



A SELECT PARTY. 



A Max of Fancy made an entertainment at one of his castles 
in the air, and invited a select number of distinguished person- 
ages to favor him with their presence. The mansion, though less 
splendid than many that have been situated in the same region, 
was, nevertheless, of a magnificence such as is seldom witnessed 
by those acquainted only with terrestrial architecture. Its strong 
foundations and massive walls were quarried out of a ledge of 
heavy and somber clouds which had hung brooding over the earth, 
apparently as dense and ponderous as its own granite, throughout 
a wliole autumnal da^j. Perceiving that the general eifect was 
gloomy, — so that the airy castle looked like a feudal fortress, or 
a monastery of the middle ages, or a state-prison of our own 
times, rather than the home of pleasure and repose which he in- 
tended it to be, — the owner, regardless of expense, resolved to 
gild the exterior from top to bottom. Fortunately, there was just 
then a flood of evening sunshine in the air. This being gathered 
up, and poured abundantly upon the roof and walls, imbued them 
with a kind of solemn cheerfulness; while the cupolas and pinna- 
cles were made to glitter with the purest gold, and all the hun- 
dred windows gleamed with a glad light, as if the edifice itself 
were rejoicing in its heart. And now, if the people of the lower 
world chanced to be looking upward out of the turmoil of their 
petty perplexities, they probably mistook the castle in the air for 
a heap of sunset clouds, to which the magic of light and shade 
had imparted the aspect of a fantastically-constructed mansion. 
To such beholders it was unreal, because they lacked the imagi- 
native faith. Had they been worthy to j)ass within its portal, 
the}?- would have recognized the truth, that the dominions which 
the spirit conquers for itself among unrealities become a thousand 
times more real than the earth whereon they stamp their feet, 
saying, "This is solid and substantial: this may be called a 
fact." 

At the appointed hour, the host stood in his great saloon to re- 
ceive the company. It was a vast and noble room, the vaulted 
ceiling of which was supported by double rows of gigantic pillars 
that had been hewn entire out of masses of variegated clouds. 
So brilliantl}^ were they polished, and so exquisitely^ wrought by 
the sculptor's skill, as to resemble the finest specimens of emerald, 
porphyry, opal, and chrysolite ; thus producing a delicate richness 
of effect which their immense size rendered not incompatible with 
grandeur. To each of these pillars a meteor was suspended. 
Thousands of these ethereal lusters are continually wandering 
about the firmament, burning out to waste, yet capable of impart- 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 179 

ing a useful radiance to any person who has the art of converting 
them to domestic purposes. As managed in the saloon, they are 
far more economical than ordinary lamplight. Such, however, 
was the intensit}'' of their blaze, that it had been found expedient 
to cover each meteor with a globe of evening-mist ; thereby muf- 
fling the too-potent glow, and soothing it into a mild and com- 
fortable splendor. It was like the brilliancy of a powerful yet 
chastened imagination, — a light which seemed to hide whatever 
was unworthy to be noticed, and give effect to every beautiful 
and noble attribute. The guests, therefore, as they advanced up 
the center of the saloon, appeared to better advantage than ever 
before in their lives. 

The first that entered, with old-fashioned punctuality, was a 
venerable figure in the costume of bygone days, with his white 
hair flowing down over his shoulders, and a reverend beard upon 
his breast. He leaned upon a staffl, the tremulous stroke of which, 
as he set it careful!}'- upon the floor, re-echoed through the saloon, 
at every footstep. Recognizing at once this celebrated personage, 
whom it had cost him a vast deal of trouble and research to dis- 
cover, the host advanced nearly three-fourths of the distance 
down between the pillars to meet and welcome him. 

" Venerable sir," said the Man of Fancy, bending to the floor, 
" the honor of this visit would never be forgotten were my term 
of existence to be as happily prolonged as your own." 

The old gentleman received the compliment with gracious con- 
descension. He then thrust up his spectacles over his forehead, 
and appeared to take a critical survey of the saloon. 

" Never within my recollection," observed he, " have I entered 
a more spacious and noble hall. But are you sure that it is built 
of solid materials, and that the structure will be permanent ? " 

" Oh, never fear, my venerable friend ! " replied the host. " In 
reference to a lifetime like your own, it is true, my castle may 
well be called a temporary edifice ; but it will endure long 
enough to answer all the purposes for which it was erected." 

But we forget that the reader has not yet been made acquainted 
with the guest. It was no other than that universally-accredited 
character so constantly referred to in all seasons of intense cold 
or heat ; he that remembers the hot Sunday and the cold Friday ; 
the witness of a past age, whose negative reminiscences find their 
way into every newspaper, yet whose antiquated and dusky abode 
is so overshadowed by accumulated years, and crowded back by 
modern edifices, that none but the Man of Fancy could have 
discovered it : it was, in short, the twin-brother of Time, and 
great-grandsire of Mankind, and hand-and-glove associate of all 
forgotten men and things, — the Oldest Inhabitant. The host 
would willingly have drawn him into conversation, but succeeded 



180 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

only in eliciting a few remarks as to the oppressive atmospliere of 
this present summer evening compared with one which the guest 
had experienced about fourscore years ago. The old gentleman, 
in fact, was a good deal overcome by his journey among the 
clouds ; which, to a frame so earth-incrusted by long continuance 
in a lower region, was unavoidably more fatiguing than to 
younger spirits. He was therefore conducted to an easy-chair, 
well cushioned, and stuffed with vaporous softness, and left to take 
a little repose. 

The Man of Fancy now discerned another guest, who stood so 
quietly in the shadow of one of the pillars, that he might easily 
have been overlooked. 

" My dear sir," exclaimed the host, grasping him warmly by 
the hand, " allow me to greet you as the hero of the evening. 
Pray do not take it as an empty compliment ; for, if there were 
not another guest in my castle, it would be entirely pervaded with 
your presence." 

" I thank you," answered the unpretending stranger. " But, 
though you happened to overlook me, I have not just arrived. I 
came very early; and, with your permission, shall remain after 
the rest of the company have retired." 

And who does the reader imagine was this unobtrusive guest ? 
It was the famous performer of acknowledged impossibilities, — 
a character of superhuman capacity and virtue, and, if his ene- 
mies are to be credited, of no less remarkable weaknesses and 
defects. With a generosity with which he alone sets us an ex- 
ample, we will glance merely at his nobler attributes. He it is, 
then, who prefers the interests of others to his own, and a hum- 
ble station to an exalted one. Careless of fashion, custom, the 
opinions of men, and the influence of the press, he assimilates his 
life to the standard of ideal rectitude, and thus proves himself 
the one independent citizen of our free country. In point of 
ability, many people declare him to be the only mathematician 
capable of squaring the circle; the only mechanic acquainted 
with the principle of perpetual motion ; the only scientific philos- 
opher who can compel water to run up hill ; the only writer of 
the age whose genius is equal to the production of an epic poem ; 
and finally, so various are his accomplishments, the onlj^ professor 
of gymnastics who has succeeded in jumping down his own throat. 
With all these talents, however, he is so far from being considered 
a member of good society, that it is the severest censure of any 
fashionable assemblage to affirm that this remarkable individual 
was present. Public orators, lecturers, and theatrical performers 
particularly, eschew his company. For especial reasons, we are 
not at liberty to disclose his name, and shall mention only one 
other trait, — a most singular phenomenon in natural philosophy. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 181 

— that, when he happens to cast liis eyes upon a looking-glass, 
he beholds nobody reflected there. 

Several other guests now made their appearance ; and among 
them, chattering with immense volubility, a brisk little gentleman 
of universal vogue in private society, and not unknown in the 
public journals under the title of Monsieur On-Dit. The name 
would seem to indicate a Frenchman ; but, whatever be his coun- 
try, he is thoroughlj^ versed in all the languages of the day, and 
can express himself quite as much to the purpose in English as 
in any other tongue. No sooner were the ceremonies of saluta- 
tion over than this talkative little person put his mouth to the 
host's ear, and whispered three secrets of state, an important 
piece of commercial intelligence, and a rich item of fashionable 
scandal. He then assured the Man of Fancy that he would not 
fail to circulate in the society of the lower world a minute descrip- 
tion of this magnificent castle in the air, and of the festivities at 
whicli he had the honor to be a guest. So saying. Monsieur 
On-Dit made his bow, and hurried from one to another of the 
company, with all of whom he seemed to be acquainted, and to 
possess some topic of interest or amusement for every individual. 
Coming at last to the Oldest Inhabitant, who was slumbering 
comfortably in the easy-chair, he applied his mouth to that ven- 
erable ear. 

"What do you say?" cried the old gentleman, starting from 
his nap, and putting up his hand to serve the purpose of an ear- 
trumpet. 

Monsieur On-Dit went forward again, and repeated his commu- 
nication. 

" Never within my memory," exclaimed the Oldest Inhabitant, 
lifting his hands in astonishment, " has so remarkable an incident 
been heard of." 

Now came in the Clerk of the Weather, who had been invited 
out of deference to his official station ; although the host was well 
aware that his conversation was likely to" contribute but little to 
the general enjoyment. He soon, indeed, got into a corner with 
his acquaintance of long ago, the Oldest Inhabitant, and began 
to compare notes with him in reference to the great storms, gales 
of wind, and other atmospherical facts, that had occurred during 
a century past. It rejoiced the Man of Fancy that his venerable 
and much-respected guest had met with so congenial an associate. 
Entreating them both to make themselves perfectly at home, he 
now turned to receive the Wandering Jew. This personage, 
however, had latterly grown so common, by mingling in all sorts 
of society, and appearing at the beck of every entertainer, that 
he could hardly be deemed a proper guest in a very exclusive cir- 
cle. Besides, being covered with dust from his continual wander- 



,182 ' ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ings along the highways of the world, he really looked out of 
place in a dress-party : so that the host felt relieved of an incom- 
modity when the restless individual in question, after a brief stay, 
took his departure on a ramble toward Oregon. 

The portal was now thronged by a crowd of shadowy people 
with whom the Man of Fancy had been acquainted in his vision- 
ary youth. He had invited them hither for the sake of observing 
how they would compare, whether advantageously or otherwise, 
with the real characters to whom his maturer life had introduced 
him. They were beings of crude imagination, such as glide be- 
fore a young man's eye, and pretend to be actual inhabitants of 
the earth, — the wise and witty with whom he would hereafter hold 
intercourse ; the generous and heroic friends whose devotion would 
be requited with his own ; the beautiful dream- woman who would 
become the helpmate of his human toils and sorrows, and at once 
the source and partaker of his happiness. Alas ! it is not good 
for the full-grown man to look too closely at these old acquaint- 
ances, but rather to reverence them at a distance through the 
medium of years that have gathered duskily between. There 
was something laughably untrue in their pompous stride and ex- 
aggerated sentiment: they were neither human, nor tolerable 
likenesses of humanity, but fantastic maskers, rendering heroism 
and nature alike ridiculous by the grave absurditj"" of their pre- 
tensions to such attributes. And as for the peerless Dream-Lady, 
behold ! there advanced up the saloon, with a movement like a 
jointed doll, a sort of wax figure of an angel, — a creature as cold 
as moonshine ; an artifice in petticoats, with an intellect of pretty 
phrases, and only the semblance of a heart, yet in all these par- 
ticulars the true type of a young man's imaginarj'" mistress. 
Hardly could the host's punctilious courtesy restrain a smile as 
he paid his respects to this unreality, and met the sentimental 
glance with which the Dream sought to remind him of their for- 
mer love-passages. 

" Ko, no, fair lady," murmured he betwixt sighing and smil- 
ing : "my taste is changed. I have learned to love what Nature 
makes, better than my own creations in the guise of woman- 
hood." 

"Ah, false one!" shrieked the Dream-Lady, pretending to faint, 
but dissolving into thin air, out of wliich came the deplorable 
murmur of her voice, "your inconstancy has annihilated me." 

"So be it," said the cruel Man of Fancy to himself; "and a 
good riddance too." 

Together with these shadows, and from the same region, there 
came an uninvited multitude of shapes, which at an}'' time during 
his life had tormented the Man of Fancy in his moods of morbid 
melancholy, or had haunted him in the delirium of fever. The 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 183 

walls of Ills castle in the air were not dense enough to keep them 
out ; nor would the strongest of earthly architecture have availed 
to their exclusion. Here were those forms of dim terror which 
had beset him at the entrance of life, waging warfare with his 
hopes ; here were strange uglinesses of earlier date, such as haunt 
children in the nightmare. He was particularly startled by the 
vision of a deformed old black woman, whom he imagined as lurk- 
ing in the garret of his native home, and who, when he was an in- 
fant, had once come to his bedside and grinned at him in the crisis 
of a scarlet-fever. This same black shadow, with others almost 
as hideous, now glided among the pillars of the magnificent saloon, 
grinning recognition, until the man shuddered anew at the forgot- 
ten terrors of his childhood. It amused him, however, to observe 
the black woman, with the mischievous caprice peculiar to such 
beings, steal up to the chair of the Oldest Inhabitant, and peep 
into his half-dreamy mind. 

''Never within my memory," muttered that venerable person- 
age, aghast, " did I see such a face." 

Almost immediately after the unrealities just described, arrived 
a number of guests whom incredulous readers may be inclined to 
rank equally among creatures of imagination. The most note- 
worthy were an incorruptible patriot, a scholar without pedantry, 
a priest without worldly ambition, and a beautiful woman without 
pride or coquetry, a married pair whose life had never been dis- 
turbed bj^ incongruity of feeling, a reformer untrammeled by his 
theories, and a poet who felt no jealousy toward other votaries 
of the lyre. In truth, however, the host was not one of the cyn- 
ics who consider these patterns of excellence without the f^tal 
flaw such rarities in the world ; and he had invited them to his 
select party chiefl}^ out of humble deference to the judgment of 
society, which pronounces them almost impossible to be met with. 

" In my younger days," observed the Oldest Inhabitant, " such 
characters might be seen at the corner of every street." 

Be that as it might, these specimens of perfection proved to be 
not half so entertaining companions as people with the ordinary 
allowance of faults. 

But now appeared a stranger, whom the host had no sooner 
recognized, than, with an abundance of courtesy unlavished on 
any other, he hastened down the whole length of the saloon in 
order to pay him emphatic honor. Yet he Avas a young man, in 
poor attire, with no insignia of rank or acknowledged eminence, 
nor an}^ thing to distinguish him among the crowd, except a high, 
white forehead, beneath which a pair of deepest eyes were glow- 
ing with warm light. It was such a light as never illuminates 
the earth save when a great heart burns as the household fire of 
a grand intellect. And who was he? — who but the Master 



184 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Genius, for whom our country is looking anxiously into the mist 
of Time, as destined to fulfil the great mission of creating an 
American literature, hewing it, as it were, out of the unwrought 
granite of our intellectual quarries ? From him, whether molded 
in the form of an epic poem, or assuming a guise altogether new, 
as the spirit itself may determine, we are to receive our first great 
original work, which shall do all that remains to be achieved for 
our glory among the nations. How this child of a mighty destiny 
had been discovered by the Man of Fancy, it is of little conse- 
quence to mention. Suffice it that he dwells as yet unhonored 
among men, unrecognized by those who have known him from his 
cradle. The noble countenance, which should be distinguished 
by a halo diffused around it, passes daily amid the throng of peo- 
ple, toiling, and troubling themselves about the trifles of a mo- 
ment; and none pay reverence to the worker of immortality. 
Nor does it matter much to him, in his triumph over all the ages, 
though a generation or two of his own times shall do themselves 
the wrong to disregard him. 

By this time. Monsieur On-Dit had caught up the stranger's 
name and destiny, and was busily whispering the intelligence 
among the other guests. 

" Pshaw ! " said one : " there can never be an American 
genius." 

" Pish ! " cried another : " we have already as good poets as 
any in the world. For my part, I desire to see no better." 

And the Oldest Inhabitant, when it was proposed to introduce 
him to the Master Genius, begged to be excused; observing, that 
a man who had been honored with the acquaintance of Dwight 
and Freneau and Joel Barlow might be allowed a little austerity 
of taste. 

The saloon was now fast filling up by the arrival of other 
remarkable characters, among whom were noticed Davy Jones, 
the distinguished nautical personage, and a rude, carelessly- 
dressed, harum-scarum sort of elderly fellow, known by the nick- 
name of Old Harry. The latter, however, after being shown to a 
dressing-room, re-appeared with his gray hair nicely combed, his 
clothes brushed, a clean dicky on his neck, and altogether so changed 
in aspect as to merit the more respectful appellation of Venerable 
Henry. John Doe and Richard Poe came arm in arm, accompa- 
nied by a man of straw, a fictitious indorser, and several persons 
who had no existence except as voters in closelj'-contested elections. 
The celebrated Seatsfield, who now entered, was at first supposed 
to belong to the same brotherhood, until he made it apparent that 
he v/as a real man of flesh and blood, and had his earthl}'' domicile 
in Germany. Among the latest comers, as might reasonably be 
expected, arrived a guest from the Far Future. 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 185 

" Do you know him ? do you know liim ? '^ whispered Mon- 
sieur On-Dit, who seemed to be acquainted with everybody. 
" He is the representative of posterity, — the man of an age to 
come." 

" And how came he here ? " asked a figure who was evidently 
the prototype of the fashion-plate in a magazine, and might be 
taken to rej)resent the vanities of the passing moment. "The 
fellow infringes upon our rights by coming before his time.'' 

" But you forget where we are," answered the Man of Eancy, 
who overheard the remark. " The lower earth, it is true, w^ill be 
forbidden ground to him for many long years hence ; but a castle 
in the air is a sort of No Man's Land, where posterity may make 
acquaintance with us on equal terms." 

No sooner was his identity known than a throng of guests 
gathered about Posterity, all expressing the most generous in- 
terest in his welfare, and many boasting of the sacrifices which 
they had made, or were willing to make, in his behalf Some, 
with as much secrecy as possible, desired his judgment upon 
certain copies of verses or great manuscript rolls of prose ; others 
accosted him with the familiarity of old friends, taking it for 
granted that he was perfectly cognizant of their names and char- 
acters. At length, finding himself thus beset. Posterity was put 
quite beside his patience. 

'• Gentlemen, my good friends," cried he, breaking loose from a 
misty poet who strove to hold him by the button, " I pray you 
to attend to your own business, and leave me to take care of 
mine ! I expect to owe you nothing, unless it be certain 
national debts, and other encumbrances and impediments, physi- 
cal and moral, which I shall find it troublesome enough to remove 
from my j)ath. As to your verses, pray send them to your con- 
temporaries. Your names are as strange to me as your faces ; 
and, even were it otherwise, — let me whisper you a secret, — the 
cold, icy memory Avhich one generation ma}^ retain of another is 
but a poor recompense to barter life for. Yet, if your heart is 
set on being known to me, the surest, the only method is to live 
truly and wisely for your own age, whereby, if the native force 
be in you, you may likewise live for posterity." 

"It is nonsense," murmured the Oldest Inhabitant, who, as a 
man of the past, felt jealous that all notice should be withdrawn 
from himself to be lavished on the future, — " sheer nonsense, to 
waste so much thought on what only is to be." 

To divert the minds of his guests, who were considerably 
abashed by this little incident, the Man of Fancy led them 
through several apartments of the castle, receiving their compli- 
ments upon the taste and varied magnificence that were displaj^ed 
in each. One of these rooms was filled with moonlight, which 



186 ENGLISH LITER ATUEE. 

did not enter through the window^, but was the aggregate of all 
the moonshine that is scattered around the earth on a summer 
night while no ej^es are awake to enjoy its beauty. Airy spirits 
]iad gathered it up, wherever they found it gleaming on the broad 
bosom of a lake, or silvering the meanders of a stream, or glim- 
mering among the wind-stirred boughs of a wood, and had gar- 
nered it in this one spacious hall. Along the walls, illuminated 
by the mild intensity of the moonshine, stood a multitude of 
ideal statues, the original conception of the great works of 
ancient or modern art, which the sculptors did but imperfectly 
succeed in putting into marble : for it is not to be supposed that 
the pure idea of an immortal creation ceases to exist ; it is only 
necessary to know where they are deposited in order to obtain 
possession of them. In the alcoves of another vast apartment 
was arranged a splendid library, the volumes of which were in- 
estimable, because they consisted, not of actual performances, but 
of the works whicli the authors onl}^ planned, without ever find- 
ing the happy season to achieve them. To take familiar in- 
stances, here were the untold tales of Chaucer's "Canterbury 
Pilgrims," the unwritten cantos of the "Fairy Queen," the 
conclusion of Coleridge's " Christabel," and the whole of Dry- 
den's projected epic on the subject of King Arthur. The shelves 
were crowded ; for it would not be too much to affirm that every 
author has imagined and shaped out in his thought more and 
far better works than those which actually proceeded from his 
pen. And here, likewise, were the unrealized conceptions of 
3'outhful poets who died of the very strength of their own genius, 
before the world had caught one inspired murmur from their lips. 

When the peculiarities of the library and statue gallery were 
explained to the Oldest Inhabitant, he appeared infinitely per- 
plexed, and exclaimed w^ith more energy than usual, that he had 
never heard of such a thing within his memory, and, moreover, 
did not at all understand how it could be. 

" But my brain, I think," said the good old gentleman, " is 
getting not so clear as it used to be. You young folks, I suppose, 
can see your way through these strange matters. For my part, 
I give it up." 

" And so do I," muttered the Old Harry. " It is enough to 
puzzle the ahem ! " 

Making as little reply as possible to these observations, the 
Man of Fancy preceded the company to another noble saloon, the 
pillars of which were solid golden sunbeams taken out of the sky 
in the first hour in the morning. Thus, as they retained all 
their living luster, the room was filled with the most cheerful 
radiance imaginable, yet not too dazzling to be borne with com- 
fort and delight. dDhe windows were beautifully adorned with 



NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. 187 

curtains made of the many-colored clouds of sunrise, all imbued 
with virgin light, and hanging in magnificent festoons from the 
ceiling to the floor. Moreover, there were fragments of rainbows 
scattered through the room : so that the guests, astonished at 
one another, reciprocally saw their heads made glorious by the 
seven primary hues; or, if they chose, — as who would not? — 
they could grasp a rainbow in the air, and convert it to their own 
apparel and adornment. But the morning light and scattered 
rainbows were only a type and symbol of the real wonders of the 
apartment. By an influence akin to magic, yet perfectly natural, 
whatever means and opportunities of joy are neglected in the 
lower world had been carefully gathered up and deposited in the 
saloon of morning sunshine. As may well be conceived, there- 
fore, there was material enough to supply, not merely a joyous 
evening, but also a happy lifetime, to more than as many people 
as that spacious apartment could contain. The company seemed 
to renew their youth ; while that pattern and proverbial standard 
of innocence, the child unborn, frolicked to and fro among them, 
communicating his own unwrinkled gayety to all who had the 
good fortune to witness his gambols. 

" My honored friends," said the Man of Fancy after they had 
enjoyed themselves a while, " I am now to request your presence 
in the banqueting-hall, where a slight collation is awaiting you." 

"Ah, well said!" ejaculated a cadaverous figure, who had 
been invited for no other reason than that he was pretty con- 
stantly in the habit of dining with Duke Humphrey. "I was 
beginning to wonder whether a castle in the air were provided 
with a kitchen." 

It was curious, in truth, to see how instantly the guests were 
diverted from the high moral enjoyments, which they had been 
tasting with so much apparent zest, by a suggestion of the more 
solid as well as liquid delights of the festive board. They 
thronged eagerly in the rear of the host, who now ushered them 
into a lofty and extensive hall, from end to end of which was 
arranged a table, glittering all over with innumerable dishes and 
drinking-vessels of gold. It is an uncertain point whether these 
rich articles of place were made for the occasion out of molten 
sunbeams, or recovered from the wrecks of the Spanish galleons 
that had lain for ages at the bottom of the sea. The upper end 
of the table was overshadowed by a canopy, beneath which was 
placed a chair of elaborate magnificence, which the host himself 
declined to occupy, and besought his guests to assign it to the 
worthiest among them. As a suitable homage to his incalculable 
antiquity and eminent distinction, the post of honor was at first 
tendered to the Oldest Inhabitant. He, however, eschewed it, 
and requested the favor of a bowl of gruel at a side-table, where 



188 ENGLISH LITERATUEB. 

be could refresh himself with a quiet nap. There was some little 
hesitation as to the next candidate, until Posterity took the Master 
Genius of our country by the hand, and led him to the chair of state 
beneath the princely canopy. When once they beheld him in his 
true place, the company acknowledged the justice of the selection 
by a long thunder-roll of vehement applause. 

Then was served up a banquet, combining, if not all the deli- 
cacies of the season, j-et all the rarities which careful purveyors 
had met with in the flesh, fish, and vegetable markets of the land 
of Nowhere. The bill of fare being unfortunately lost, we can 
only mention a phoenix roasted in its own flames, cold potted 
birds-of-paradise, ice-creams from the Milky Way, and whip- 
syllabubs and flummery from the Paradise of Fools, whereof there 
was a very great consumption. As for drinkables, the temper- 
ance people contented themselves with water as usual, but it was 
the water of the Fountain of Youth ; the ladies sipj)ed Kepenthe ; 
the love-lorn, the care-worn, and the sorrow-stricken were supplied 
with brimming goblets of Lethe ; and it was shrewdW conjec- 
tured that a certain golden vase, from which only the more dis- 
tinguished guests were invited to partake, contained nectar that 
had been mellowing ever since the day of classical mythology. 
The cloth being removed, the company, as usual, grew eloquent 
over their liquor, and delivered themselves of a succession of 
brilliant speeches; tlie task of reporting which we resign to the 
more adequate ability of Counselor Gill, whose indispensable 
co-operation the Man of Fancy had taken the precaution to 
secure. 

When the festivity of the banquet was at its most ethereal 
.point, the Clerk of the Weather was observed to steal from the 
table, and thrust his head between the purple and golden curtains 
of one of the windows. 

" My fellow-guests," he remarked aloud, after carefully noting 
the signs of the night, " I advise such of you as live at a distance 
to be going as soon as possible ; for a thunder-storm is certainly 
at hand." 

^^ Mercy on me!" cried Mother Carey, who had left her brood 
of chickens, and come hither in gossamer drapery, with pink silk 
stockings. " How shall I ever get home ? " 

All now was confusion and hasty departure, with but little 
superfluous leave-taking. The Oldest Inhabitant, however, true 
to the rule of those long-past days in which his courtesy had 
been studied, paused on the threshold of the meteor-lighted hall 
to express his vast satisfaction at the entertainment. 

" Never within my memory," observed the gracious old gen- 
tleman, "has it been my good fortune to spend a pleasanter 
evening, or in a more select society." 



THEOLOGY, METAPHYSICS, ETC. 189 

The wind here took his breath away, whirled his three-cornered 
hat into infinite space, and drowned what further compliments 
it had been his purpose to bestow. Manj- of the company had 
bespoken will-o'-the-wisps to convey them home ; and the host, in 
his general beneficence, had engaged the Man in the Moon, with an 
immense horn lantern, to be the guide of such desolate spinsters 
as could do no better for themselves. But a blast of the rising 
tempest blew out all their lights in the twinkhng of an eye. 
How, in the darkness that ensued, the guests contrived to get 
back to earth, or whether the greater part of them contrived to 
get back at all, or are still wandering among clouds, mists, and 
puffs of tempestuous wind, bruised by the beams and rafters of 
the overthrown castle in the air, and deluded by all sorts of un- 
realities, are points that concern themselves much more than the 
writer or the public. People should think of these matters 
before they trust themselves on a pleasure-party into the realm 
of Nowhere. 



THEOLOGT, METAPHYSICS, EELIGION, 
AND CHRISTIANITY. 

Jonathan Edwards. — 1703-1758. The first and most eminent metaphysi- 
cian of America. His most famous work is " The Freedom of the Will, and Moral 
Agenc3'." 

Francis Wayland. — 1796. President of Brown University from 1827 to 1856. 
"Occasional Discourses;" " iMoral Science ; " "Political Economy;" "Thoughts 
on Collegiate Education;" "Limitations of Human Responsibility;" "University 
Sermons;" "Memoirs of Judson;" " Intellectual Philosophy ; " "Notes on the Prin- 
ciples and Practices of the Baptists ; " " Discourse on the Life and Character of 
Hon. Nicholas Brown;" "Sermons to the Churches;" "Priesthood and Clergy 
Unknown to Christianity." 

William B. Sprague. — 1795. " Letters to a Daughter ;"" Letters from Europe ; " 
"Lectures to Young People;" "Lectures on Revivals;" "Hints on Cln'istian In- 
tercourse;" "Contrast between True and False Religion;" "Life of Edward Dorr 
Griffin;" "Life of President Dwight;" "Aids to Lady Religion;" "Words to a 
Young Man's Conscience;" "Letters to Young Men;" "European Celebrities;" 
"Annals of the American Pulpit," — invaluable volumes of their kind. 

Edward Robinson. — 1794. "Lexicon of New Testament;" "Biblical Re- 
searches in Palestine," four vols. ; " Harmony of the Four Gospels in Greek;" "Har- 
mony of the Four Gospels in English." Works of much learning and patient 
research. 

John Gorham Palfrey. — 1796. "Evidences of Christianity," two vols.; 
"Lectures on the Hebrew Scriptures," four vols.; "Duties of Private Life;" 
" Life of William Palfrey; " " A History of New England." 

WiLLiAiki Ellery CHAN^^NG. — 1780-1842. The works of this celebrated divine 
are published by his nephew in six volumes. 



190 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Leonard Bacon, D.D. — Born Feb. 19, 1802, Detroit, Mich. "Thirteen His- 
torical Discourses on the Completion of Tv/o Hundred Years from the Beginning 
of the First Church in New Haven; " also many addresses, essays, and articles lor 
magazines and papers. A writer of great vigor of thought and expression. 

Mark Hopkins, D.D. — Born Feb. 4, 1802, Stockbridge, Mass. "Lectures on 
the Evidences of Christianity," 1844; "Miscellaneous Essays and Discourses," 1847. 

George W. Bethune, D.D. —Born March 18, 1805, New York. "The Fruits 
of the Spirit," 1839; "Early Lost, Early Saved," 1846; "Volume of Sermons," 
1847; "History of a Penitent, or Guide to an Inquirer," 1847; "Walton An- 
glei-," 1848; "'Lays of Love and Faith, with other Poems," 1848; "The British 
Female Poets," 1848; and numerous orations before literary societies. 

Theodore Parker. — Essays and Sermons. 

Rev. Andrew P. Peabody, D.D. — Born in Beverly, Mass., 1811. "Lectures on 
Christian Doctrine," 1844; "Sermons on Consolation," 1847; besides many contri- 
butions to " North- Amei-ican Review " and "Christian Examiner." 

Rev. George B. Cheever, D.D. — Born April 17, 1807, Hallowell, Me. This 
vigorous writer and eloquent preacher has published the following: "American 
Commonplace Book of Prose," 1828; "American Commonplace Book of Poetry," 
1829; "Studies in Poetry, with Sketches of the Poets," 1830; "Selections from 
Archbishop Leighton, with Introductory Essay," 1832; "God's Hand in America," 
1841; "The Argument for Punishment by Death," 1842; "Lectures on Pilgrim's 
Progress," 1843; "Hierarchical Lectures," 1844; "Wanderings of a Pilgrim in 
the Shadow of ^lont Blanc and the Yungfrau Alp," 1846; " The Journal of the Pil- 
grims at Plymouth," 1848; " The Hill Difficulty and other Allegories," 1849; " The 
Windings of the River of the Water of Life," 1849; "Voices of Nature to her 
Fostei'-Child, the Soul of ]\Ian," 1852; "Reel in a Bottle, or Voyage to the Celestial 
Country, by an Old Salt," 1853; "Right of the Bible in our Common Schools," 
1854; '"'Lectures on Cowper," 1856; "The Powers of the World to Come," 1856; 
" God against Slavery," 1857 ; besides many contributions to papers, periodicals, and 
reviews. 

Horace Bushnell, D.D. — Born in Washington, Conn., 1804. An able and 
independent thinker in theology. Has published "God in Christ;" "Views of 
Christian Nurture;" "Christ in Theology;" "Unconscious Influence;" "The 
Day of Roads;" "Barbarism the First Danger;" "Religious Music;" "Politics 
un tier the Law of God;" "Nature and the Sunernatural; " " The One System of 
God; " " Noah Porter; " " The Human Intellect," 1869. 

Albert Barnes. — 1798. "Notes on New Testament;" "Commentaries on 
Books of the Old Testament;" many volumes of sermons. Eminent theologian 
and an indefatigable author. 

Among others of note are — 

Andrews Norton. Ltman Beecher. 

Jaz^ies Walker. Archibald Alexander. 

Henry Ware, Jun. Ti]\iothy Dwight. 

Levi Frisbee. John Witherspoon. 

J. S. BucKJiiNSTER. John M. Mason. 

GiJLiAN C. Verplanck. Charles Pettit McIlvaine. 

WiLLLV^i Barrows. Frederic H. Hedge. 



SCHOLARS, ESSAYISTS, AND CRITICS. 

John Jay, James Madison, Alexander Hainiilton, were the authors of " The 
Federalist." Nos. 2, 3, 4, 5, 54, were ^vl•itten bv Jav; 10, 14, 37 to 38 inclusive, 
by Madison; 18, 19, 20, by Madison and Hamilton; the rest, sixty-three in all, by 
Hamilton. Political essays of highest ability. 

John IMarshall. — 1755-1835. The eminent Chief Justice of the United States. 
" Life of Washington," five vols. ; " History of the American Colonies ; " " The Fed- 
eral Constitution." 



SCHOLARS, ESSAYISTS, AND CRITICS. 191 

Li>T)LET Murray. — 1745-1S26. Bom in Suatora, near Lancaster, Penn. 
Author of the famous English Grammar, and Reader; also an Introduction and a 
Sequel to the Keader. 

Thomas Jefferson. — 1743-1826. Author of " The Declai'ation of Inde- 
pendence ; " " Notes on Virghiia." 

Francis Hopkinson. — 1737-1791. Author of several pieces of excellent wit 
and satire. 

Noah Webster. — 1758-1843. "Spelling-Book;" "English Grammar;" and 
" Dictionary." It is a little strange that the best dictionary of the English language 
should have been made by an American. Begun in 1807 ; published in 1828. In 
addition to this magnificent monument to his name, he has left various political 
essays. 

William Sullivan. — 1774-1839. "The Political Class-Book;" "The :Moral 
Class-Book ; " " Historical Class-Book ; " " Historical Causes and Effects, from Fall of 
Roman Empire, 476, to Reformation, 1517;" "The Public Men of the Revolution, 
including Events from Peace of 1783 to Peace of 1815, in a Series of Letters." 

William Wirt. — 1722-1834. "The British Spy;" "The Old Bachelor;" 
" Life of Patrick Henry." 

WiLLL^^M Tudor. — 1779-1830. Founder of "The North- American Review;" 
" Letters on the Eastern States ; " "Miscellanies;" "Life of James Otis." 

Joseph Dennie. — 1768-1812. Established, in 1800, "The Portfolio." 

Thomas Paine. — 1736-1809. Author of "Common Sense;" "Rights of 

Man," in answer to Burke's "Reflections;" "The Age of Reason;" and several 

political tracts. 

Joseph T. Buckingham. — 1779. One of the first and ablest journalists of 
New England. Four volumes of "Personal Memoirs;" "Anecdotes and Recollec- 
tions of Editorial Life." 

William Jay. —1789-1858. " The Life and Writings of John Jay," two vols. 
" An Inquiry into the Character and Tendency of the American Colonization and 
American Antislavery Societies;" "A View of the Action of the Federal Gov- 
ernment in Belialf of Slavery; " " Miscellaneous Writings on Slavery;" "Histoiy 
of the Mexican War;" all written with candor and charity. 

Alexander H. Everett. — "Europe;" "America;" "New Ideas on Popula- 
tion; " " Critical and Miscellaneous Essays," two vols. His writings are principally 
of a political character, but of high literary merit. 

Henry Reed. — Born July 11, 1808, Philadelphia, Penn. Drowned in the steam- 
ship "Arctic," Sept. 27, 1854. "Lectures on English Literature, from Chaucer to 
Tennyson;" "Lectures on the British Poets," two vols.; "Lectures on English His- 
tory and Tragic Poetry, as illustx*ated by Shakspeare;" " Two Lectures on the 
Histoiy of the American Union." 

Joseph E. Worcester. — The celebrated lexicogi*apher ; resided in Cambridge, 
Jlass. His quarto dictionary is an enduring monument of his industry and philo- 
logical learning. 

RuFus Wilmot Grisw^old. — Bom 1815, Benson, Vt. ; died 1857. "Poets and 
Poetry of America," 1842; " Prose- Writers of America;" "The Female Poets of 
America," 1848; "The Curiosities of American Literature;" "The Poets and 
Poetry of England in the Nineteenth Century; " and several other volumes. 

Henry Theodore Tuckerman. — Born April 20, 1813, Boston, Mass. "Artist- 
Life, or Sketches of American Painters;" "The Italian Sketch-Book; " " Tlie 
Optimist Essays ; " " Rambles and Reveries ; " " Sicily, a Pilgrimage ; " 
"Thoughts on the Poets;" "Characteristics of Literature;" "jMemorial of 
Greenough the Sculptor;" "Leaves from the Diary of a Dreamer; " "Biographi- 
cal Essays;" and a volume of Poems, all genial andgi-aceful. 

Margaret Fuller d'Ossoll — 1810-1850. "Summer on the Lakes;" 
" Woman in the Nineteenth Century," herself one of the ablest. 

George Stillman Hillard. — Born Sept. 22, 1808, Machias, Me. "Six 
]\Ionths in Italy;" valuable articles to principal American reviews; and an ex- 
cellent series of Readers. 



192 ENGLISH LITERATUEB. 

JosiAH Gilbert Holla>jd. — Born July 24, 1819, Belchertown, Mass. Editor 
of "' Springfield Kepublicaii; " is well known as the author of " Timothy Titcomb's 
Letters to Young People," 1858 (humorous and satirical); "Bitter-Sweet;" and 
"The Bay Path." ' 

Edwin P. Whipple. — Born March 8, 1819, Gloucester, Mass. Has published 
two volumes of "Essays and Reviews," and "Lectures on Subjects connected 
with Literature and Life;" all of much value for their terse, vigorous style, and 
keen analysis. 

Bayard Taylor. — Born Jan. 11, 1825, Kennet Square, Chester County, Penn. 
Has published several interesting books of travel; " Views Afoot;" " Rhjnnes of 
Travel; " " A Journey to Central Africa; " " The Lands of the Saracens; " " India, 
China, and Japan;" "Northern Travel;" "Poems of the Orient;" " Poems of 
Home and Travel; " " The Lawson Tragedy," 1870. 

George William Curtis. — Born 1824, Providence, R.I. A brilliant and pop- 
ular writer and orator; is now editor of "Harper's Monthly." Published in 1850 
"Nile-Notes of a Howadji;" 1852, "The Howadji in Syria;" and " Lotus-Eating," 
a summer book. "The Potiphar Papers" were very popular satirical sketches 
of society. 

C. C. Felton. H. F. Tuckerman. 

Horace Mann. Charles Anthon. 

E. E. Hale. Henry Barnard. 

Henry D. Thoreau. Orestes A. Brownson. 

John Russell Bartlett. George Burgess. 

Catherine Beechee. Elihu Burritt. 

Henry Bellows. Mary H. Eastinian. 

Sarah Stickney. Thomas H. Benton. 

Caleb Gushing. Charles D. Cleveland. 

George T. Curtis. WiuLiAai H. Seward. 



WETTERS OP FICTION". 

James Fenimore Cooper. — 1789-1851. This celebrated American novelist 
was boi-n in Burlington, N.J. Besides his novels named in the list below, he has 
published a "History of the United-States Navy;" "Gleanings in Europe;" 
" Sketches of Switzerland; " and other smaller works. 

LIST of novels. 
"Precaution," 1821: "The Spv," 1821; "The Pioneers," 1823; "The Pilot," 
1823; "Lionel Lincoln," 1825; " Last of the Mohicans," 1826; "Red Rover," 1827; 
"The Prairie," 1827; "Traveling Bachelor," 1828; " Wept of Wish-ton-Wish," 
1829; "The Water-Witch," 1830; " The Bravo," 1831; "The Heidenmauer," 1832; 
"The Headsman," 1833; "The Monikins," 1835; "Homeward Bound," 1838; 
"Home as Found," 1838; "The Pathfinder," 1840; "Mercedes of Castile," 1840; 
"The Deerslaver," 1841; "The Two Admirals," 1842; " Wing-and-Wing," 1842; 
"Ned Myers," 1843; "Wyandotte," 1843; "Afloat and Ashore," 1844; "Miles 
Wallino-ford," 1844; " The" Chainbearer," 1845; " Satanstoe," 1845; "The Red- 
Skins," 1846; "The Crater," 1847; "Jack Tier," 1848; "Oak-Openings," 1848; 
" The Sea Lions," 1849; " The Ways of the Hour," 1850. 



THE CAPTURE OF A WHALE. 

" Tom," cried Barnstable, starting, " there is the blow of a 
whale!" 

" Ay, ay, sir ! " returned the cockswain with undisturbed com- 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 193 

posure : " here is his spout, not half a mile to seaward. The east- 
erly gale has driven the creater to leeward; and he begins to find 
himself in shoal water. He's been sleeping while he should have 
been working to windward." 

" The fellow takes it coolly too. He's in no hurry to get an 
offing." 

" I rather conclude, sir," said the cockswain, rolling over his to- 
bacco in his mouth very composedly, while his little sunken eyes 
began to twinkle with pleasure at the sight, " the gentleman has 
lost his reckoning, and don't know which way to head to take 
himself back into blue water." 

" 'Tis a fin-back ! " exclaimed the lieutenant. " He will soon 
make headway, and be off." 

"No, sir ; 'tis a right whale," answered Tom : " I saw his spout. 
He threw up a pair of as pretty rainbows as a Christian would wish 
to look at. He's a raal oil-butt, that fellow ! " 

Barnstable laughed, and exclaimed in joyous tones, — 

" Give strong way, my hearties ! There seems nothing better 
to be done : let us have a stroke of a harpoon at that impudent 
rascal." 

The men shouted spontaneously ; and the old cockswain suffered 
his solemn visage to relax into a small laugh, while the whale- 
boat sprang forward like a courser for the goal. During the few 
minutes they were pulling toward their game, Long Tom arose 
from his crouching attitude in the stern-sheets, and transferred 
his huge frame to the bows of the boat, where he made such prep- 
aration to strike the whale as the occasion required. The tub, 
containing about half of a whale-line, was placed at the feet of 
Barnstable, who had been preparing an oar to steer with in place 
of the rudder, wliicli was unshipped, in order, that, if necessary, 
the boat might be wliirled round when not advancing. 

Their approach was utterly unnoticed hy the monster of the 
deep, who continued to amuse himself with throwing the water 
in two circular spouts high into the air; occasionally flourishing 
the broad flukes of his tail with graceful but terrific force until 
the hardy seamen were within a few hundred feet of him, when 
he suddenly cast his head downwards, and, without apparent 
effort, reared his immense body for many feet above the water, 
waving his tail violently, and producing a whizzing noise that 
sounded like the rushing of winds. The cockswain stood erect, 
poising his harpoon, ready for the blow ; but, when he beheld the 
creature assuming this formidable attitude, he waved his hand to 
his commander, who instantly signed to his men to cease rowing. 
In this situation the sportsman rested a few moments ; while the 
whale struck several blows on the water in rapid succession, the 
noise of which re-echoed along the cliffs like the hollow reports 
13 



194 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of so many cannon. After this wanton exhibition of his terrible 
strength, the monster sank again into his native element, and 
slowly disappeared from the eyes of his pursuers. 

" Which way did he head, Tom ? " cried Barnstable the mo- 
ment the whale was out of sight. 

" Pretty much up and down, sir," returned the cockswain, 
whose eye was gradually brightening with the excitement of the 
sport. " He'll soon run his nose against the bottom if he stands 
long on that course, and will be glad to get another snuff of pure 
air. Send her a few fathoms to starboard, sir, and I promise we 
shall not be out of his track." 

The conjecture of the experienced old seaman proved true ; for 
in a few minutes the water broke near them, and another spout 
was cast into the air, when the huge animal rushed for half his 
length in the same direction, and fell on the sea with a turbulence 
and foam equal to that which is produced by the launching of a 
vessel for the first time into its proper element. After this evo- 
lution, the whale rolled heavily, and seemed to rest from further 
efforts. 

His slightest movements were closely watched by Barnstable 
and his cockswain ; and, when he was in a state of comparative 
rest, the former gave a signal to his crew to ply their oars once 
more. A few long and vigorous strokes sent the boat directly up 
to the broadside of the whale, with its.bows pointing towards one 
of the fins, which was at times, as the animal yielded sluggishly 
to the action of the waves, exposed to view. The cockswain 
poised his harpoon with much precision, and then darted it from 
him with a violence that buried the iron in the body of their foe. 
The instant the blow was made, Long Tom shouted with singular 
earnestness, — 

" Starn, all ! " 

" Stern, all ! " echoed Barnstable ; when the obedient seamen, 
by united efforts, forced the boat in a backward direction, beyond 
the reach of any blow from their formidable antagonist. The 
alarmed animal, however, meditated no such resistance. Ignorant 
of his own power, and of the insignificance of his enemies, he 
sought refuge in flight. One moment of stupid surprise succeeded 
the entrance of the iron; when he cast his huge tail into the air 
with a violence that threw the sea around him into increased com- 
motion, and then disappeared with the quickness of lightning 
amid a cloud of foam. 

"Snub him!" shouted Barnstable. "Hold on, Tom! he rises 
already." 

" Ay, a}^, sir ! " replied the composed cockswain, seizing the line, 
which was running out of the boat with a velocity that rendered 
such a maneuver rather hazardous, and causing it to yield more 



JAMES FEKIMORB COOPER. 195 

gradually round the large loggerhead that was placed in the bows 
of the boat for that purpose. Presently the line stretched for- 
ward; and, rising to the surface with tremulous vibrations, it indi- 
cated the direction in which the animal might be expected to 
re-appear. Barnstable had cast the bows of the boat towards that 
point before the terrified and wounded victim rose once more to 
the surface, whose time was, however, no longer wasted in his 
sports, but who cast the waters aside as he forced his way with 
prodigious velocity along their surface. The boat was dragged 
violently in his wake, and cut through the billows with a terrific 
rapidit}^, that at moments appeared to bury the slight fabric in the 
ocean. When Long Tom beheld his victim throwing his spouts 
on high again, he pointed with exultation to the jetting fluid, 
which was streaked with the deej) red of blood, and cried, — 

" Ay, I've touched the fellow's life ! It must be more than two 
foot of blubber that stops my iron from reaching the life of any 
whale that ever sculled the ocean.'' 

" I believe you have saved yourself the trouble of using the 
bayonet you have rigged for a lance," said his commander, who 
entered into the sport with all the ardor of one whose j^outh had 
been chiefly passed in such pursuits. " Feel your line. Master 
Coffin : can we haul alongside of our enemy ? I like not the 
course he is steering, as he tows us from the schooner." 

" 'Tis the creater's,wa3^, sir," said the cockswain. "You know 
they need the air in their nostrils when they run, the same as a 
man. But lay hold, boys, and let us haul up to him." 

The seamen now seized their whale-line, and slowly drew their 
boat to within a few feet of the tail of the fish, whose progress 
became sensibly less rapid as he grew weak with the loss of blood. 
In a few minutes he stopped running, and appeared to roll un- 
easily on the water, as if suffering the agony of death. 

" Shall we pull in and finish him, Tom ? " cried Barnstable. 
" A few sets from your bayonet would do it." 

The cockswain stood examining his game with cool discretion, 
and replied to this interrogatory, — 

"No, sir! no! He's going into his flurry: there's no occasion 
for disgracing ourselves by using a soldier's weapon in taking a 
whale. Starn off, sir! starn off! the creater's in his flurry." 

The warning of the prudent cockswain was promptly obeyed; 
and the boat cautiously drew off to a distance, leaving to tlie ani- 
mal a clear space while under its dying agonies. From a state 
of perfect rest, the terrible monster threw its tail on high as when 
in sport ; but its blows were trebled in rapidity and violence, till 
all was hid from view by a pyramid of foam that was deeply 
dyed with blood. The roarings of the fish were like the bellow- 
in gs of a herd of bulls ; and, to one who was ignorant of the fact, 



196 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

it would have appeared as if a thousand monsters were engaged 
in deadly combat behind the bloody mist that obstructed the 
view. Gradually these efforts subsided ; and, when the discolored 
water again settled down to the long and regular swell of the 
ocean, the fish was seen exhausted, and yielding passively to its 
fate. As life departed, the enormous black mass rolled to one 
side ; and, when the white and glistening skin of the belly became 
apparent, the seamen well knew that their victory was achieved. 



THE WRECK OF ''THE ARIEL:' 

"Go, my boys, go!" said Barnstable, as the moment of dreadful 
uncertainty passed : "you have still the whale-boat; and she, at 
least, will take you nigh the shore. Go into her, my boj^s ! God 
bless you, God bless you all ! You have been faithful and honest 
fellows ; and I believe he will not yet desert jo\x. Go, my friends, 
while there is a lull ! " 

The seamen threw themselves in a mass of human bodies into 
the light vessel, which nearly sunk under the unusual burden ; 
but, when they looked around them, Barnstable and Merry, Dil- 
lon and the cockswain, were yet to be seen on the decks of " The 
Ariel." The former was pacing, in deep and perhaps bitter melan- 
choly, the wet planks of the schooner; while the boy hung 
unheeded on his arm, uttering disregarded petitions to his com- 
mander to desert the wreck. Dillon approached the side where 
the boat lay, again and again ; but the threatening countenances 
of the seamen as often drove him back in despair. Tom had 
seated himself on the heel of the bowsprit, where he continued 
in an attitude of quiet resignation, returning no other answers to 
the loud and repeated calls of his shipmates than by waving his 
hand towards the shore. 

"Now, hear me," said the boy, urging his request to tears: 
"if not for my sake or for your own sake, Mr. Barnstable, or for 
the hopes of God's mercy, go into the boat for the love of my 
cousin Katherine." 

The young lieutenant paused in his troubled walk ; and for a 
moment he cast a glance of hesitation at the cliffs : but at the 
next instant his ej^es fell on the ruin of his vessel ; and he an- 
swered, — 

" Never, boy, never ! If my hour has come, I will not shrink 
from my fate." 

" Listen to the men, dear sir: the boat will be swamped along- 
side the wreck ; and their cry is, that, without you, they will not 
let her go." 

Barnstable motioned to the boat to bid the boy enter it, and 
turned away in silence. 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 197 

"Well," said Merry with firmness, " if it be right that a lieu- 
tenant shall stay by the wreck, it must also be right for a mid- 
shipman. Shove off: neither Mr. Barnstable nor myself will 
quit the vessel." 

S' Boy, your life has been intrusted to lay keeping, and at my 
hands will it be required," said his commander, lifting the strug- 
gling youth, and tossing him into the arms of the seamen.^ 
" Away with ye ! and God be with you ! There is more weight iui 
you now than can go safe to land." 

Still the seamen hesitated : for they perceived the cockswain 
moving with a steady tread along the deck ; and they hoped he 
had relented, and would yet persuade the lieutenant to join his 
crew. But Tom, imitating the example of his commander, seized 
the latter suddenly in his powerful grasp, and threw him over 
the bulwarks with an irresistible force. At the same moment, he 
cast the fast of the boat from the pin that held it ; and, lifting his 
broad hands high into the air, his voice was heard in the tempest. 

" God's will be done with me ! " he cried. " I saw the first 
timber of ' The Ariel ' laid, and shall live just long enough to see it 
turn out of her bottom ; after which I wish to live no longer." 

But his shipmates were swept far beyond the sounds of his 
voice before half these words were uttered. All command of the 
boat was rendered impossible by the numbers it contained, as 
well as the raging of the surf; and, as it rose on the white crest 
of a wave, Tom saw his beloved little craft for the last time. It 
fell into a trough of the sea ; and in a few moments more its frag- 
ments were ground into splinters on the adjacent rocks. The 
cockswain still remained where he had cast off the rope, and be- 
held the numerous heads and arms that appeared rising at short 
intervals on the waves : some making powerful and well-directed 
efforts to gain the sands, that were becoming visible as the tide 
fell ; and others wildly tossed in the frantic movements of helpless 
despair. The honest old seaman gave a cry of joy as he saw 
Barnstable issue from the surf, bearing the form of Merry in safety 
to the sands, where, one by one, several seamen soon appeared 
also, dripping and exhausted. Many others of the crew were car- 
ried in a similar manner to places of safety ; though, as Tom 
returned to his seat on the bowsprit, he could not conceal from 
his reluctant eyes the lifeless forms that were, in other spots, 
driven against the rocks with a fury that soon left them but few 
of the outward vestiges of humanity. 

Dillon and the cockswain were now the sole occupants of their 
dreadful station. The former stood in a kind of stupid despair, 
a witness of the scene we have related; but, as his curdled blood 
began again to flow more warmly through his heart, he crept close 
to the side of Tom with that sort of selfish feeling that makes 



198 ENGLISH. LITERATD-EE. 

even hopeless misery more tolerable when endured in participa- 
tion with another. 

"When the tide falls," he said in a voice that betraj^ed the 
agony of fear, though his words expressed the renewal of hope, 
" we shall be able to walk to land." 

" There was One, and only One, to whose feet the waters were 
the same as a dry deck," returned the cockswain ; " and none but 
such as have this power will ever be able to walk from these rocks 
to the sands." The old seaman paused ; and turning his eyes, 
which exhibited a mingled expression of disgust and compassion, 
on his companion, he added with reverence, " Had you thought 
more of him in fair weather, your case would be less to be pitied 
in this tempest." 

"Do you still think there is much danger?" asked Dillon. 

" To them that have reason to fear death.. Listen ! Do you 
hear that hollow noise beneath ye ? " 

" 'Tis the wind driving by the vessel." 

" 'Tis the poor thing herself," said the affected cockswain, 
" giving her last groans. The water- is breaking up her decks; 
and, in a few minutes more, the handsomest model that ever cut 
a wave will be like the chips that fell from her timbers in fram- 
ing." 

" Wh}'-, then, did you remain here ? " cried Dillon wildly. 

" To die in my coffin, if it should be the will of God," returned 
Tom. " These waves to me are what the land is to jon : I was 
born on them, and I have always meant that they should be my 
grave." 

" But I — I," shrieked Dillon, — " I am not ready to die ! — I 
can not die ! — I will not die ! " 

" Poor wretch ! " muttered his companion. " You must go, like 
the rest of us. When the death-watch is called, none can skulk 
from the muster." 

" I can swim," Dillon continued, rushing with frantic eagerness 
to the side of the wreck. " Is there no billet of wood, no rope, 
that I can take with me ? " 

" None : every thing has been cut away, or carried off by the 
sea. If ye are about to strive for your life, take with ye a stout 
heart and a clean conscience, and trust the rest to God." 

" God ! " echoed Dillon in the madness of his frenzy : " I know 
no God ! There is no God that knows me ! " 

" Peace ! " said the deep tones of the cockswain in a voice that 
seemed to speak in the elements; "blasphemer, peace !" 

The heavy groaning produced by the water in the timbers of 
" The Ariel," at that moment added its impulse to the raging feel- 
mgs of Dillon; and he cast himself headlong into the sea. 

The water thrown by the rolling of the surf on the beach was 



JAMES FENIMORE COOPER. 199 

necessarily returned to the ocean in eddies, in different places 
favorable to sucli an action of the element. Into the edge of one 
of these counter-currents, that was produced by the very rocks on 
wliich the schooner lay, and which the watermen call the "under- 
tow," Dillon had, unknowingly, thrown his person ; and, when the 
waves had driven him a short distance from the wreck, he was 
met by a stream tliat his most desperate efforts could not over- 
come. He was a light and powerful swimmer; and the struggle 
was hard and protracted. With the shore immediately before his 
eyes, and at no great distance, he was led, as by a false phantom, 
to continue his efforts, although they did not advance him a foot. 
The old seaman, who at first had watched his motions with care- 
less indifference, understood the danger of his situation at a 
glance ; and, forgetful of his own fate, he shouted aloud, in a 
voice that was driven over the struggling victim to the ears of 
his shipmates on the sands, — 

" Sheer to port, and clear the under-tow ! — sheer to the south- 
ward ! " 

Dillon heard the sounds ; but his faculties were too much ob- 
scured by terror to distinguish their object : he, however, blindly 
yielded to the call, and gradually changed his direction, until his 
face was once more turned toward the vessel. -The current swept 
him diagonally by the rocks ; and he was forced into an eddy, 
wliere he had nothing to contend against but the waves, whose 
violence was much broken by the wreck. In tliis state he con- 
tinued still to struggle, but with a force that was too much weak- 
ened to overcome the resistance he met. Tom looked around 
him for a rope ; but not one presented itself to ]iis hands : all had 
gone over with the spars, or been swept away by the waves. At 
this moment of disappointment, his eyes met those of the desper- 
ate Dillon. Calm, and inured to horrors, as was the veteran sea- 
man, he involuntarily passed his hand before his brow as if to 
excUide the look of despair he encountered ; and when, a moment 
afterwards, he removed the rigid member, he beheld the sinking 
form of the victiui as it gradually settled in the ocean, still strug- 
gling, with regular but impotent strokes of the arms and feet, to 
gain the wreck, and to preserve an existence that had been so 
much abused in its liour of allotted probation. 

" He will soon know his God, and learn that his God knows 
him," murmured the cockswain to himself. As he yet spoke, 
the wreck of " The Ariel " yielded to an overwiielming sea ; and, 
after a universal shudder, her timbers and planks gave way, and 
were swept towards the cliffs, bearing the body of the simple- 
hearted cockswain among the ruins. 



200 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

ILvERiET Beecher Stowe. — Bom June 14, 1812, Litchfield, Conn. Danghtef 
of Eev. Lyman Beecher, D.D., and sister of Eev. Henry Ward Beecher. 

Mrs. Stowe's most remarkable work is " Uncle Tomb's Cabin, or Life among the 
Lowly," first published in numbers (weekly) in "The National Era," in book-form, 
in 1852. Its gi'eat popularity is shown by the copies sold; no single production 
ever having equaled it. Translated into all languages, dramatized in twenty differ- 
ent forms, its sales were reckoned by millions instead of by thousands. Her writ- 
ings, not wanting in deep pathos, originality of thought, and knowledge of human 
nature, are vet more distinguished for their A'igorous common sense. 

Other Productions. — "The Mayflower;" "Key to Uncle Tom;" "Sunny 
Memories of Foreign Lands;" "Dred, or a Tale of the Dismal Swamp;" "The 
Minister's Wooing; " " House and Home Papers; " " The Pearl of Orr's Island;" 
" Agnes of Sorrento; " " Men of our Times." 

Samuel G. Goodrich. — Bom Ridgefield, Conn., 1793. The renowned "Peter 
Parley " has published a hundred and seventy-seven volumes: — 

"Sketches from a Student's Window," 1836; "Fireside Education," 1838; 
"The Outcast, and other Poems," 1841; "Recollections of a Lifetime, or Men and 
Things I have seen," 1856; Miscellaneous Works, thirty vols. ; School-Books, twenty- 
seven vols. ; "Peter Parley's Tales," thirty-six vols. ; "Parley's Historical Com- 
pends," thirty-six vols. ; "Parley's Miscellanies," seventy vols. Sales, ten million 
volumes, indicate the popularity of his various works. 

Jacob Abbott. — 1803. " The Young Christian ; " " Corner-Stone ; " " Way to 
do Good ; " " Hoary Head ; " and the " Rollo Books." In all, about seventy volumes. 

Lydia Maria Child. — This noble woman is always graceful and interesting. 
Has published " Hoboraok; " "Rebels, a Tale of the Revolution;" "Frugal House- 
wife;" " The Mother's Book; " " The Girl's Book; " the Lives of Madame de Stael, 
Roland, Guyon, and Lady Russell, for "Ladies' Family Library; " "Biography of 
Good Wives';'' " Condition of Women in all Ages," two vols^; "An Appeal for 
that Class of American Citizens called Africans;" "Philothea;" "Letters from 
New York; " " Fact and Fiction;" " The Progi'ess of Religious Ideas, embracing a 
View of every Form of Belief, from the Most Ancient Hindoo Records to the Com- 
plete Establishment of the Papal Church;" "Looking toward Sunset;" "The 
Freedmen's Book; " " A Romance of the Republic." 

James Kirke Paulding. — 1778. Joint author, with Irving, of first "Salma- 
gundi Papers;" sole author of second "Salmagundi;" " Lay of a Scotch Fiddle 
and Jokely;" "The United States and England;" "Letters from the South;" 
"The Diverting Histoiy of John Bull and Brother Jonathan; " " Old Times in the 
New World; " " John "Bull in America ; " " Many Tales of the Three Wise Men of 
Gotham; " " The New Pilgrim's Progress; " " The Tales of a Good Woman, by a 
Doubtful Gentleman;" "Dutchman's Fireside;" "Westward, Ho!" "Life of 
Washmgton;" "Slavery in the United States;" "The Old Continental;" "The 
Puritan's Daughter." 

William Gilmore Simms. — Bora April 17, 1806, Charleston, S.Ci Novelist, 
historian, and poet. Of this truly original writer, we regi-et that we can give only 
the names of his fifty-three volumes of poetry, fiction, history, and biography. 
"Lyrical and other Poems;" "Early Lays;'"' "The Tricolor;" "Atalantis;" 
"Martin Faber; " "Guy Rivers;" '" Yemassee; " "The Partisan;" " Melli- 
champe; " " Pelayo; " " Carl Werner; " " Richard Hurdis; " " Damsel of Darien; " 
" Beauchamp ; " " The Kinsman ; " " Katharine Walton ; "_ " Confession." 

Rev. William Ware. — 1797-1816. "Zenobia;" "Aurelian;" "Julian;" 
" Sketches of European Capitals." 

Lydia Huntley Sigourney. — "Moral Pieces in Prose and Verse;" "Letters 
to Pupils;" "Letters to Young Ladies;" "AVhisper to a Bi'ide;" "Letters to 
Mothers ; " " Child's Book ; " " Girl's Book ; " " Boy's Book ; " " How to be Happy ; " 
" Water-Drops ; " "Olive-Leaves;" "Scenes in My Native Land:" "Pleasant 
Memories of Pleasant Lands ; " " Sea and Sailor; " " Pocahontas ; " " Weeping Wil- 
low;" "Voice of Flowers;" "Sayings of the Little Ones, and Poems for their 
Mothers; " " Past Meridian; " " Lucy Howard's Journal." 

Catherine Maria Sedgwick. — " A New-England Tale," 1822; "Redwood;" 
"Hope Leslie, or Early Times in Massachusetts," two vols. ; "Clarence;" "The 
Lin woods, or Sixty Years since in America;" "Home;" "The Poor Rich Man 



SCIENCE. 201 

and the Rich Poor Man ; " " Live and Let Live; " " Means and Ends, or Self-Train- 
ing;" " A Love-Token for Children ; " " Stories for Young Persons;" "Morals of 
Manners;" "Facts and Fancies;" "The Boy of Mount Rhigi;" "Letters from 
Abroad to Kindred at Home; " " Life of Lucretia M. Davidson; " " Married or Sin- 
gle." 

Mrs. Caroline M. Kirkland. — "New Home; Who'll Follow?" by Mrs. May 
Clavers, 1839; "Forest-Life," 1842; "Western Clearings;" "An Essay on the Life 
and Writings of Spenser;" "Holidays Abroad, or Europe from the West;" "The 
Evening Book, with Sketches of Western Life;" " Autumn Hours ; " "The Home 
Circle ; " " The Book of Home Beauty ; " " Memoirs of Washington," — all spirited, 
and full of common sense. 

Charles Brockden Brown. — 1771-1810. "Alarin;" "Wieland;" " Or- 
mond;" "Arthur Mervyn," two vols.; "Edgar Huntley;" "Clara Howard;" 
" Jane Talbot." Portions of his novels unpleasantly terrific. 

John Neal. — 1793. "Keep Cool;" "The Battle of Niagara, with other 
Poems;" " Otho," five-act tragedy; " Goldau, the Maniac Harper;" "Logan;" 
"Randolph;" "Errata;" "Seventy-Six;" " Brother Jonathan; " "Rachel Dyer, a 
Story of Salem Witchcraft;" "Authorship, by a New-Englander over the Sea;" 
" Down-Easters ; " and "Ruth Elder." 

Seba Smith. — 1792. "Letters of Major Jack Downing; " " Thirty Years out 
of the United-States Senate, by Major Jack Downing; " " Way Down East; " "New 
Elements of Geometry." 

Richard H. Dana, Jun. T. W. Higginson. 

Theodore Winthrop. C. C. Coffin ( " Carleton " ). 

Maria S. Ci^mmins. Kate Field. 

E. Stuart Phelps. Moses Coit Tyler. 

Louisa M. Alcott. William H. Murray. 

"Fanny Fern" (Mrs. James Parton). Elijah Kellogg. 

"Gail Hamilton " (Mary E. Dodge). J. T. Trowbridge. 

Thomas B. Thorpe. W. T. Adams. 

Edmund Flagg. 



SCIENCE, 

INCLUDING DISTINGUISHED PHYSICISTS AND NATURALISTS. 

Benja:\iin Franklin. — 1706-1790. The world-renowned philosopher and states- 
man, whose life and works are known, or ought to be, to every American. 
Benjamin Rush. — 1745-1813. 
Alexander Wilson. — 1766-1813. 

John James Audubon. — 1782-1851. " Birds of America." 
Henry C. Carey. — 1793. " Laws of Wealth," three vols. ; " Harmony of Inter- 
ests," &c.; "Principles of Social Science." 

John Bachman. Asa Gray. 

Edwin Hamilton Davis. Alphonso Wood. 

Chester Dewey. A. D. Bache. 

Samuel Henry Dickson. Matthew F. Maury. 

John William Draper. Ephraim G. Squier. 

James Hall. William A. Alcott. 

Edward A. Samuels. Williaim Cranch Bond. 

Louis Agassiz. Thomas Ewbank. 

Benjamin Pierce. J. C Frk^iont. 

Benjamin Silliman. Joseph Henry. 

James D. Dana. Joseph Warren. 

The poetry of phvslcs and the natural sciences, and the grand epics of mathe- 
matics, terrestrial and celestial mechanics, are daily becoming familiar to a greater 
number of pupils, and are destined to furnish the most brilliant ornaments of 
modem style. 



202 ENGLISH LITERATUBE. 



HISTORY, LAW, POLITICS, AND 
BIOGRAPHY. 

William Hickling Prescott. — 1796. Salem, Mass. Died 1859. Four great 
historical works, — " The Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella; " " The Conquest of Mex- 
ico; " " The Conquest of Peru; " " The History of Philip II." 

George Bancroft. — 1800. Worcester, Mass. Author of the most elaborate 
" History of the United States," of which ten volumes are now published; the rest 
to follow. 

Richard Hildreth. — 1807. "History of the United States," in six vols.; 
"Japan as It Was and Is." 

Jared Sparks. — 1789. President of Harvard University, 1849 -1852. " Letters 
on the ;\linistry. Ritual, and Doctrines of the Protestant-Episcopal Church;" Editor 
of " Tiie Unitarian Miscellany and Christian Monitor;" "Collection of Essays and 
Tracts in Theology, from Various Authors," six vols. ; " An Inquiry into the Compar- 
ative Moral Tendency of Trinitarian and Unitarian Doctrines;" ''Life of John Led- 
yard;" "The Diplomatic Correspondence of the American Revolution," twelve 
vols.; "The Life of Gouverneur Morris," three vols.; "Life and Writings of Wash- 
ington," twelve vols. ; "The Works of Benjamin Franklin, -svith Notes, and a Life 
of the Author," ten vols.; "Correspondence of the American Revolution, Letters 
of Eminent Men to George Washington to the End of his Presidency," four vols. ; 
eight of the sixty lives in "Library of American Biography;" and "A History of 
the Foreign Relations of the United States during the Revolution." 

Josiah Quincy. — 1772 -1864. " Speeches in Congress, and Orations on Various 
Occasions ; " " Memoir of the Life of John Quincy Adams ; " other memoirs and local 
histories. 

John Winthrop. — 1587-1649. "Diary of Events in Massachusetts Colony to 
1644." 

Cotton Mather. — 1663 -1728. " Magnalia Christi Americana." 

George Ticknor. — 1791. "The History of Spanish Literature," three vols.; 

"The Remains of Nathaniel Appletou Haven, with a Memoir of his Life;" and 

"Life of Lafayette." 

Willia:vi Wirt. Butler. 

Ja>!es Wilson. McKenney and Hall. 

David Ramsey. John Abbott. 

Joseph Story. Charles Francis Adams. 

Horace B. Wallace. William Allen. 

Richard H. Wilde. James D. B. DeBow. 

Josiah Quincy. Sa^iuel Eliot. 

J. Q. Adams. George E. Ellis. 

Fisher A:mes. Richard Frothingham, Jun. 

John Ada:«s. William Willis. 

George Washington. J. F. Kirk. 

Williamson. Horace Greeley. 

Cajipbell. George W. Greene. 

Stevens. Francis Parkman. 

TJRAVELERS. 

John L. Stevens. Charles Wilkes. 

Edward Robinson. Caleb Gushing. 

John Bartram. George Cheever. 

John Wool:man. Bayard Taylor. 

Timothy Flint. J, T. Headley. 

Hexry Schoolcraft. Dr. Kane. 

Jonathan Carver. Dr. I. I. Hayes. 
John Ledyaru. 



CHAELES DICKENS. 203 



CHAKLES DICKENS. 

Born 1812, near Portsmouth, England. 

The first of living English novelists. No writer of fiction makes us more thor- 
oughly acquainted with nis characters. He is the most truthful painter of his 
times; depicting life, however, in its humbler forms and in its darker shades. Hu- 
mor and pathos are equally natural to his pen. He has visited America twice. On 
his first visit, having met vulgarity, snobbery, and servility, where he expected to 
find refinement, nobility, and sovereignty, the truthful portraits of the specimens 
he studied, set down in " American Notes " and " Martin Chuzzlewit," did not please 
his American readers. But our honorable financial dealings Avith him on his second 
visit (a reading-tour through our principal cities) moved him to admit, by note to 
the next edition of his books, that we are neither snobs nor fools nor knaves, taken 
as a Avhole.* 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" Pickwick Papers;" " David Copperfield ; " " Nicholas Nickleby; " "Bamaby 
Eudge;" "Our Mutual Friend;" "Little Dorritt;" "Great Expectations;" 
"DombeyandSon;" " Uncommercial Traveler; " " Old Curiosity Shop ; " "Christ- 
mas Books;" " Tale of Two Cities;" "Bleak House;" "Martin Chuzzlewit;" 
" Sketches by Boz;'-' " Pictures from Italy; " " Oliver Twist; " " Mysteries of Ed- 
win Drood," now publishing. 



SCENES FROM THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 

The dull red glow of a wood-fire — for no lamp or candle 
burnt within the room — showed him a figure, seated on the 
hearth with its back towards him, bending over the fitful light. 
The attitude was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and 
yet was not. The stooping posture and the cowering form were 
there ; but no hands were stretched out to meet the grateful 
warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury with the pier- 
cing cold outside. With limbs huddled together, head bowed 
down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clinched, 
it rocked to and fro upon its seat without a moment's pause, 
accompanying the action with the mournful sound he had heard. 

Tlie heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance with a 
crash tliat made him start. The figure neither spoke, nor turned 
to look, nor gave in au}^ other way the faintest sign of having 
heard the noise. The form Avas that of an old man, his white 
head akin in color to the moldering embers upon which he 
gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn 
room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellow- 
ship, — ashes and dust and ruin ! 

Kit tried to speak, and did pronounce some words ; though 
what they were he scarcely knew. Still the same terrible low 
cry went on ; still the same rocking in the chair ; the same 

* Charles Dickens died suddenly, June 9, 1870; and was buried in Westminster Abbey. 



2G4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

stricken figure was there, unchanged, and heedless of his pres- 
ence. 

He had his hand upon the latch, when something in the form — 
distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it fell, blazed up 
— arrested it. He returned to where he had stood before; ad- 
vanced a pace — another — another still. Another, and he saw 
the face. Yes ! changed as it was, he knew it well. 

"Master!" he cried, stooping on one knee, and catching at his 
hand, — " dear master ! Speak to me ! " 

The old man turned slowly toward him, and muttered in a 
hollow voice, — 

" This is another ! How many of these spirits there have 
been to-night ! " 

" No spirit, master ; no one but your old servant. You know 
me now, I am sure ? Miss Xell — where is she ? where is she ? " 

" They all say that ! " cried the old man. " They all ask the 
same question. A spirit ! " 

" Where is she ? " demanded Kit. " Oh ! tell me but that, — 
but that, dear master ! '^ 

" She is asleep — yonder — in there." 

"Thank God!" 

"Ay, thank God!" returned the old man. "I have prayed 
to him many and many and many a livelong night when she 
has been asleep, he knows. Hark ! Did she call ? " 

" I heard no voice." 

" You did. You hear her now. Do you tell me that you don't 
hear that ? " 

He started up, and listened again. 

" Nor that ? " he cried with a triumphant smile. " Can any- 
body know that voice so well as I ? Hush ! hush ! " 

Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another 
chamber. After a short absence (during which he could be 
heard to speak in a softened, soothing tone), he returned, bearing 
in his hand a lamp. 

" She is still asleep ! " he whispered. " You were right. She 
did not call, unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to 
me in her sleep before now, sir. As I have sat by, watching, I 
have seen her lips move ; and have known, though no sound came- 
from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the light might 
dazzle her eyes and wake her : so I brought it here. 

He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor ; but, when he 
had put the lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by 
some momentary recollection or curiosity, and held it near his 
face. Then, as if forgetting his motive in the very action, he 
turned away, and put it down again. 

"She is sleeping soundly," he saidj "but no wonder. Angel- 



^ CHARLES DICKENS. 205 

hands have strewn the ground deep with snow, that the lightest 
footstep may be lighter yet ; and the very birds are dead, that 
they may not wake her. She used to feed them, sir. Though 
never so cold and hungry, the timid things would fly from us. 
They never flew from her ! " 

Again he stopped to listen, and, scarcely drawing breath, lis- 
tened for a long, long time. That fancy past, he opened an 
old chest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they had been 
living things, and began to smooth and brush them with liis hand. 

" Why dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," he murmured, 
" when there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee 
to pluck them ? Wliy dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little 
friends come creeping to the door, crying, ' Where is Nell, sweet 
Nell ? ' and sob and weep because they do not see thee ? She 
was always gentle with children. The wildest would do her bid- 
ding. She had a tender way with them ; indeed she had." 

Kit had no power to speak. His eyes were filled with tears. 

" Her little homely dress, her favorite," cried the old man, 
pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shriveled hand. 
'' She will miss it when she wakes. They have hid it here in 
sport : but she shall have it ; she shall have it. I would not vex 
my darling for the wide world's riches. See here, — these shoes, 
how worn they are ! She kept them to remind her of our last 
long journey. You see where the little feet went bare upon the 
ground. They told me afterwards that the stones had cut and 
bruised them. She never told me that. No, no, God bless her! 
And I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir, that I 
might not see how lame she was ; but yet she had my hand in 
hers, and seemed to lead me still." 

He pressed them to his lips, and, having carefully put them 
back again, went on communing with himself, looking wistfully 
from time to time towards the chamber he had lately visited. 

" She was not wont to be a lie-abed ; but she was well then. 
We must have patience. When she is well again, she will rise 
early, as she used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morn- 
ing-time. I often tried to track the way she had gone ; but her 
small footstep left no print upon the dewy ground to guide me. 
Who is that ? Shut the door. Quick ! Have we not enough to 
to do to drive away that marble cold, and keep her warm ?" 

The door was indeed opened for the entrance of Mr. Garland 
and his friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were 
the schoolmaster and the bachelor. The former held a light 
in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone to his own cottage to 
replenish the exhausted lamp at the moment when Kit came up 
and found the old man alone.' 

He softened again at sight of these two friends, and, laying 



206 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

aside tlie angry manner (if to any thing so feeble and so sad the 
term can be applied) in which he had spoken when the door 
opened, resumed his former seat, and subsided by little and little 
into the old action, and the old, dull, wandering sound. 

Of the strangers he took no heed whatever. He had seen 
them, but appeared quite incapable of interest or curiosity. The 
younger brother stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards 
the old man, and sat down close beside him. After a long 
silence, he ventured to speak. 

" Another night, and not in bed ? " he said softly. " I hoped 
you would be more mindful of your promise to me. Why do you 
not take some rest ? '^ 

" Sleep has left me," returned the old man. " It is all with 
her." 

" It would pain her very much to know that you were watching 
thus," said the bachelor. " You would not give her pain ? " 

" I am not so sure of that, if it would only rouse her. She 
has slept so very long ! And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good 
and happy sleep, eh ? " 

"Indeed it is!" returned the bachelor; "indeed, indeed, it is!" 

" That's well. And the waking ? " faltered the old man. 

"Happy too, — happier than tongue can tell, or heart of man 
conceive." 

They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other 
chamber where the lamp had been replaced. They listened as he 
spoke again within its silent walls. They looked into the faces 
of each other ; and no man's cheek was free from tears. He came 
back, whispering that she was still asleep, but that he thought 
she had moved. It was her hand, he said, — a little, a very, 
ver}'- little; but he was pretty sure she had moved it, — perhaps 
in seeking his. He had known her do that before now, though 
in the deepest sleep the while. And, when he had said this, he 
dropped into his chair again, and, clasping his hands above his 
head, uttered a cry never to be forgotten. 

The poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would 
come on the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked 
his fingers, which he had twisted in his gray hair, and pressed 
them in their own. 

" He will hear me," said the schoolmaster, " I am sure. He will 
hear either me or jou. if we beseech him. She would at all times." 

" I will hear an 3^ voice she liked to hear," cried the old man. 
" I love all she loved." 

"I know you do," returned the schoolmaster: "lam certain 
of it. Think of her; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you 
have shared together, of all the trials and all the peaceful pleas- 
ures you have jointly known." 



CHARLES DICKENS. 207 

"I do ; I do. I think of nothing else." 

" I would have you tliink of nothing else to-night, — of noth- 
ing but those things which will soften your heart, dear friend, 
and open it to old affections and old times. It is so that she 
would speak to you herself; and in her name it is that I speak 
now." 

" You do well to speak softlj^," said the old man. " We will 
not wake her. I should he glad to see her eyes again, and to see 
her smile. There is a smile upon her young face now ; but it is 
fixed and changeless. I would have it come and go. That shall 
be in Heaven's good time. We will not wake her." 

'• Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as she used to be 
when you were journeying together, far away; as she was at 
home, in the old house from which you fled together; as she was 
in the old cheerful time," said the schoolmaster. 

" She was always cheerful, very cheerful," cried the old man, 
looking steadfastly at him. " There was ever something mild 
and quiet about her, I remember, from the first ; but she was of 
a happy nature." 

" We have lieard you say," pursued the schoolmaster, " that 
in this, and in all goodness, she was like her mother. You can 
think of and remember her ? " 

He maintained his steadfast look, but gave no answer. 

" Or even one before her ? " said the bachelor. " It is many 
years ago, and affliction makes the time longer ; but you have not 
forgotten her whose death contributed to make this child so dear 
to you, even before you knew her worth, or could read her heart ? 
Say that you could carry back your thoughts to very distant 
days, — to the time of your early life, Avhen, unlike this fair 
flower, you did not pass your yo^th alone. Say that you could 
remember, long ago, another child who loved you dearly; you 
being but a child yourself. Say that j^ou had a brother, long 
forgotten, long unseen, long separated from you, who now at last, 
in your utmost need, came back to comfort and console you " — 

" To be to you what you were once to him," cried the younger, 
falling on his knee before him; "to repay your old affection, 
brother dear, by constant care, solicitude, and love ; to be, at 
your right hand, what he has never ceased to be when oceans 
rolled between us; to call to witness his unchanging truth, and 
mindfulness of bygone days, — whole years of desolation. Give 
me but one word of recognition, brother ; and never — ^^ no, never in 
the brightest moment of our youngest days, when, poor silly boys, 
we thought to pass our lives together — have we been half as dear 
and precious to each other as we shall be from this time hence." 

The old man looked from face to face, and his lips moved ; but 
no sound came from them in reply. * 



208 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" If we were knit together then/' pursued the younger brother, 
" what will be the bond between us now ! Our love and fellowship 
began in childhood, when life was all before us ; and will be re- 
sumed when we have proved it, and are but children at the last. 
As many restless spirits who have hunted fortune, fame, or 
pleasure, through the world, retire in their decline to where they 
first drew breath, vainly seeking to be children once again before 
they die ; so we, less fortunate than they in early life, but happier 
in its closing scenes, will set up our rest again among our boyish 
haunts, and going home with no hope realized that had its 
growth in manhood, carrying back nothing that we brought 
away but our old yearnings to each other, saving no fragment 
from the wreck of life but that which first endeared it, may be, 
indeed, but children as at first. And even," he added in an 
altered voice, — " even if what I dread to name has come to pass, 
— even if that be so, or is to be, (which Heaven forbid and spare 
us !) still, dear brother, we are not apart, and have that comfort in 
our great affliction." 

By little and little, the old man had drawn back towards the 
inner chamber while these words were spoken. He pointed 
there as he replied with trembling lips, — 

" You plot among you to wean my heart from her. _ You never 
will do that ; never while I have life ! I have no relative or 
friend but her ; I never had ; I never will have. She is all in all 
to me. It is too late to part us now." 

Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to her as he 
went, he stole into the room. They who were left behind drew 
close together, and, after a few whispered words (not unbroken by 
emotion, or easily uttered), followed him. They moved so gently, 
that their footsteps made no noise ; but there were sobs from 
among the group, and sounds of grief and mourning. 

For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, she lay at rest. 
The solemn stillness was no marvel now. 

She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from 
trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh 
from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not 
one who had lived, and suffered death. 

Her couch was dressed with here and there some winter-berries 
and green leaves gathered in a spot she had been used to favor. 
" When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, 
and had the sky above it always." Those were her words. 

She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell was dead. 
Her little bird, a poor slight thing the pressure of a finger would 
have crushed, was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong 
heart of its child-mistress was mute and motionless for ever. 

Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and 



CHAKLES DICKENS, 209 

fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her ; but peace 
and perfect happiness were born, imaged in her tranquil beauty 
and profound repose. 

And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. 
Yes ; the old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it 
had passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care. 
At the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening, 
before the furnace-fire upon the cold, wet night, at the still bed- 
side of the dying boy, there had been the same mild, lovely look. 
So shall we know the angels in their majesty after death. 

The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small 
hand tight folded to his breast for warmth. It was the hand 
she had stretched out to him with her last smile, — the hand that' 
led him on through all their wanderings. Ever and anon, he 
pressed it to his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, mur- 
muring that it was warmer now ; and, as he said it, he looked in 
agony to those who stood around, as if imploring them to help 
her. 

She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient 
rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was 
waning fast ; the garden she had tended ; the eyes she had glad- 
dened ; the noiseless haunts of many a thouglitful hour; the paths 
she had trodden as it were but yesterday, — could know her never 
more. 

" It is not," said the schoolmaster, as he bent down to kiss her 
on the cheek, and gave his tears free vent, — " it is not on earth 
that Heaven's justice ends. Think what earth is compared with 
the world to which her young spirit has winged its early flight ; 
and say, if one deliberate wish expressed in solemn terms above 
this bed could call her back to life, which of us would utter it ? " 



SCENES FROM ''PICKWICK:' 
THE DILEMMA. 

Mr. Pickwick's apartments in Goswell Street, although on a 
limited scale, we^e not only of a very neat and comfortable descrip- 
tion, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his 
genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor 
front; his bed-room was the second floor front; and thus, whether 
he was sitting at his desk in the parlor, or standing before the 
dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of 
contemplating human nature in all the numerous 2:)hases it ex- 
hibits in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. 

His landlady, Mrs. Bardell, — the relict and sole executrix of 
14 



210 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

a deceased custom-house officer, — was a comely woman of 
bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural 
genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice into an 
exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. 
The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a 
small boy, — the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. 
Bardell's. The large man was always at home precisely at ten 
o'clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself 
into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlor ; 
and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bar- 
dell were exclusively confined to the neighboring pavements and 
gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; 
and in it Mr. Pickwick's will was law. 

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic 
economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable 
regulation of Mr. Pickwick's mind, his appearance and behavior 
on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for 
the journey to Eatansvill would have been most mysterious and 
unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, 
popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three 
minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited 
many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him. 
It was evident that something of great importance was in con- 
templation ; but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell 
herself had been enabled to discover. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick at last, as that amiable 
female approaclied the termination of a prolonged dusting of the 
apartment. '' Sir," said Mrs. Bardell. " Your little boy is a very 
long time gone." — " Why, it's a good long way to the borough, 
sir," remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. " Ah ! " said Mr. Pickwick, 
^' very true : so it is." Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence ; and 
Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. 

" Mrs. Bardell," said Mr. Pickwick at the expiration of a few 
minutes. " Sir," said Mrs. Bardell again. " Do jou think it's a 
much greater expense to keep two people than to keep one?" — 
"La, Mr. Pickwick !" said Mrs. Bardell, coloring up to the very 
border of her cap as she fancied she observed a species of matri- 
monial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger, — "la, Mr. Pickwick, 
what a question!" — "Well, hut do j^ou ? " inquired Mr. Pick- 
wick. " That depends," said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the 
duster very near to Mr. Pickwick's elbow, which was planted on 
the table, — " that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, 
Mr. Pickwick ; and whetlier it's a saving and careful person, 
sir." — " That's very true," said Mr. Pickwick. " But the person I 
have in my eye (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell), I 
think, possesses these qualities ; and has, moreover, a considerable 



CHARLES DICKENS. 211 

knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bar- 
dell, which may be of material use to me." 

^' La, Mr. Pickwick ! " said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to 
her cap-border again. " I do," said Mr. Pickwick, growing 
energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject wliich interested 
him, — "I do indeed ; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I 
have made up my mind." — " Dear me, sir ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bar- 
dell. " You'll think it not very strange now," said the amiable 
Mr. Pickwick with a good-humored glance at his companion, 
"that I never consulted you about this matter, and never men- 
tioned it till I sent your little boy out this morning, eh ? " 

Mrs. Bardell could only replj^ by a look. She had long wor- 
shiped Mr. Pickwick at a distance ; but here she was, all at once, 
raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant 
hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going 
to propose : a deliberate plan too, — sent her little boy to the 
borough to get him out of the wa\^ How thoughtful! how 
considerate ! '^ Well," said Mr. Pickwick, " what do you think ? " 
— '^0 Mr. Pickwick ! " said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agi- 
tation, "you're very kind, sir." — "It will save you a great 
deal of trouble, won't it ? " said Mr. Pickwick. " Oh ! I never 
thought any thing of the trouble, sir, " replied Mrs. Bardell ; 
" and, of course, I should take more trouble to please j^ou then 
than ever : but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so 
much consideration for my loneliness ! " 

" Ah ! to be sure," said Mr. Pickwick : " I never thought of 
that. When I am in town, you'll always have somebody to sit 
with you. To be sure, so you will." — " I'm sure I ought to be a 
very happy woman," said Mrs. Bardell. " And your little 
boy," said Mr. Pickwick. " Bless his heart ! " interposed Mrs. 
Bardell with a maternal sob. "He, too, will have a companion," 
resumed Mr. Pickwick ; " a lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be 
bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a 
year." And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 

"Oh, you dear!" said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. 
"Oh, you kind, good, playful dear ! " said Mrs. Bardell ; and, with- 
out more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round 
Mr. Pickwick's neck with a cataract of tears and a chorus of 
sobs. " Bless my soul ! " cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick. 
" Mrs. Bardell, my good woman ! — dear me, what a situation ! — 
pray, consider. Mrs. Bardell, don't — if anybody should come " — 
"Oh! let them come," exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically. "I'll 
never leave you, dear, kind, good soul!" and with these words 
Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. 

" Mercj'' upon me ! " said Mr. Pickwick struggling violently. 
" I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don't; don't, there's a 



212 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. 

good creature, don't ! " But entreaty and remonstrance were alike 
unavailing : for Mrs. Bardell had fainted in Mr. Pickwick's 
arms ; and, before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, 
Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. 
Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless 
and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, 
gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the 
slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their 
turn, stared at him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at 
everybody. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and 
the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they 
might have remained in exactly the same relative situation until 
the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been 
for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on 
the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, 
spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at 
first stood at the door astounded and uncertain : but, by degrees, 
the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal 
damage pervaded his partially-developed mind; and, considering 
Mr. Pickwick the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi- 
ea,rthly kind of howling, and, butting forward with his head, 
commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back 
and legs with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm 
and the violence of his excitement allowed. 

" Take this little villain away ! " said the agonized Mr. Pick- 
wick : " he's mad ! " — " What is the matter ? " said the three 
tongue-tied Pickwickians. " I don't know," replied Mr. Pick- 
wick pettishly. ^' Take away the boy ! " (here Mr. Winkle, 
carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the 
farther end of the apartment : ) "now help me to lead this woman 
down stairs." — " Oh ! Pm better now," said Mrs. Bardell faintly. 
" Let me lead you down stairs," said the ever-gallant Mr. Tup- 
man. " Thank you, sir, thank you ! " exclaimed Mrs. Bardell 
hysterically. And down stairs she was led accordingly, accompa- 
nied by her affectionate son. 

"I can not conceive," said Mr. Pickwick when his friend 
returned, — "I can not conceive what has been the matter with 
that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of 
keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary par- 
oxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing." — 
" Very," said his three friends. " Placed me in such an extremely 
awkward situation ! " continued Mr. Pickwick. " Very," was the 
reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubi- 
ously at each other. 

This behavior was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked 



CHARLES DICKENS. 213 

their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. " There is a 
man in the passage now/' said Mr. Tupman. "It's the man 
that I spoke to you about/' said Mr. Pickwick : " I sent for him 
to the borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, 
Snodgrass. 

SPEECH OF SERJEANT BUZFUZ. 

" You heard from my learned friend, gentlemen of the jury, 
that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in 
which the damages are laid at fifteen hundred pounds. The 
plaintiff, gentlemen, is a widow ; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The 
late Mr. Bardell, some time before his death, became the father, 
gentlemen, of a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge 
of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrank from the world, 
and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; 
and here she placed in her front-parlor window a written placard 
bearing this inscription : ^ Apartments furnished for a sin- 
gle GENTLEMAN. INQUIRE WITHIN.' 

" Mrs. Bardell's opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were 
derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of 
her lost husband. She had no fear; she had no distrust, — all 
was confidence and reliance. ^Mr. Bardell,' said the widow, 
^ was a man of honor ; Mr. Bardell was a man of his word ; Mr. 
Bardell was no deceiver ; Mr. Bardell was once a single gentle- 
man himself. To single gentlemen I look for protection, for 
assistance, comfort, and consolation ; in single gentlemen I shall 
perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was 
when he first won my young and untried affections ; to a single 
gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.' 

" Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the 
best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely 
and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, 
caught her innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill 
up in her parlor-window. Did it remain there long? No. 
The serpent was on the watch ; the train was laid ; the mine was 
preparing ; the sapper and miner was at work ! Before the bill had 
been in the parlor-window three days, — three days, gentlemen, 
— a being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward sem- 
blance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of 
Mrs. Bardell's house. He inquired within ; he took the lodgings; 
and, on the very next daj'-, he entered into possession of them. 
This man was Pickwick, — Pickwick, the defendant! 

" Of this man I will say little. The subject presents but few 
attractions ; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, 
gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting 



214 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

heartlessness and of systematic villainy. I say, ^ systematic vil- 
lainy,' gentlemen ; and, when I say ' systematic villainy,' let me 
tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court (as I am informed 
he is), that it woidd have been more decent in him, more becom- 
ing, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, furtlier, that a 
counsel, in the discharge of his duty, is neither to be intimidated, 
nor bullied, nor put down ; and that any attempt to do either the 
one or the other will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he 
plaintiff, or be he defendant ; be his name Pickwick or Noakes or 
Stoakes or Stiles or Brown or Thompson. 

" I shall show you, gentlemen, that, for two years, Pickwick con- 
tinued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermis- 
sion, at Mrs. Bardell's house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bar- 
dell, during the whole of that time, waited on him ; attended 
to his comforts; cooked his meals; looked out his linen for the 
washerwoman when it went abroad ; darned, aired, and prepared 
it for wear when it came home ; and, in short, enjoyed his fullest 
trust and contidence. I shall show you, that, on many occasions, 
he gave half-pence, and on some occasions even sixpence, to her 
little boy. I shall prove to you, that on one occasion, when he 
returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms offered her 
marriage (previously, however, taking special care that there 
should be no witnesses to their solemn contract) ; and I am in a 
situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own 
friends, — most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen, — most unwilling 
witnesses, — that on that morning he was discovered by them 
holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by 
his caresses and endearments. 

"And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have 
passed between these parties ; letters that must be viewed with a 
cautious and suspicious eye ; letters that were evidently in- 
tended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any 
third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the 
first : ' Garraway's, twelve o'clock. Dear Mrs. B. Chops and 
tomato-sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Gentlemen, what does this 
mean ? — ' Chops and tomato-sauce. Yours, Pickwick.' Chops 
(gracious Heavens !) and tomato-sauce ! Gentlemen, is the hap- 
piness of a sensitive and confiding female to be trifled away by 
such shallow artifices as these ? 

" The next has no date whatever, which is in itself suspicious : 
' Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home to-morrow. Slow coach.' 
And then follows this very remarkable expression, — ' Don't 
trouble yourself about the warming-pan.' The ' warming-pan ' ! 
Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan ? 
Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself 
about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKEEAY. 215 

cover for hidden fire, — a mere siibstitute for some endearing word 
or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, 
artfully contrived by Pickwick w4tli a view to liis contemplated 
desertion ? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean ? 
For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, 
who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during 
the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very 
unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he 
will find to his cost, will very soon be greased, by you. 

" But enough of this, gentlemen. It is difiicult to smile with 
an aching heart. My client's hopes and prospects are ruined ; 
and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone 
indeed. The bill is down ; but there is no tenant. Eligible 
single gentlemen pass and repass ; but there is no invitation for 
them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in 
the house. Even the voice of the child is hushed : his infant 
sports are disregarded when his mother weeps. 

" But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroj^er of 
this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street, — Pickwick, 
who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward, — 
Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless tomato- 
sauce and warming-pans, — Pickwick still rears his head with 
unblushing efirontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has 
made. Damages, gentlemen, heavy damages, is the only pun- 
ishment with which you can visit him, — the onty recompense 
you can award to my client ; and for those damages she now 
appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a con- 
scientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury 
of her civilized countrymen." 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 

3811-1863. 

Artist as well as author, he has painted human nature exactly as he saw it. 
"With wit and humor, expressed in excellent English, he ruthlessly expo'jed the shams 
and hypocrisies of fashionable society, and, for a time, about equally divided popular 
fiwor with Dickens as a novelist/ We select from his lectures "Charity and 
Hrimor," which admirably represents the man; but the style of the distinguished 
novelist must be leai-ned by reading his 

PRINCIPAIi PRODUCTIONS. 

" Vanity Fair;" "Pendennis;" " The Newcomes; " " The AHrginians; " "The 
Adventures of Philip;" "Henry Esmond;" " Lovel the Widower;" "Miscella- 
nies," five vols. 



216 ENGLISH LITERATtJRE. 



CHARITY AND HUMOR. 

Several charitable ladies of this city, to some of whom I am 
under great personal obligation, having thought that a lecture of 
mine would advance a benevolent end which they had in view, 
I have preferred, in place of delivering a discourse, which many 
of my hearers no doubt know already, upon a subject merely lite- 
rary or biographical, to put together a few thoughts, which maj'- 
serve as a supplement to the former lectures, if you like, and 
which have this, at least, in common with the kind purpose which 
assembles you here, — that they rise out of the same occasion, and 
treat of charity. 

Besides contributing to our stock of happiness, to our harmless 
laughter and amusement, to our scorn for falsehood and pretension, 
to our righteous hatred of hypocrisy, to our education in the per- 
ception of truth, our love of honesty, our knowledge of life, and 
shrewd guidance through the world, have not our humorous 
writers, our gay and kind week-daj^ preachers, done much in sup- 
port of that holy cause which has assembled you in this place, and 
which you are all abetting? — the cause of love and charity ; the 
cause of the poor, the weak, and the unhappj'- ; the sweet mission 
of love and tenderness, and peace and good-will toward men. 
That same theme which is urged upon you by the eloquence and 
example of good men to whom you are delighted listeners on 
sabbath days is taught in his way, and according to his power, 
by the humorous writer, the commentator on every-day life and 
manners. 

And as you are here assembled for a charitable purpose, giving 
your contributions at the door to benefit deserving people who 
need them without, I like to hope and think that the men of our 
calling have done something in aid of the cause of charity, and 
have helped with kind words and kind thoughts, at least, to con- 
fer happiness and to do good. 

If the humorous writers claim to be week-day preachers, have 
they conferred any benefit by their sermons ? Are people hap- 
pier, better, better disposed to their neighbors, more inclined to 
do works of kindness, to love, forbear, forgive, pity, after reading 
in Addison, in Steele, in Fielding, in Goldsmith, in Hood, in 
Dickens ? I hope and believe so, and fancy, that, in writing, they 
are also acting charitably ; contributing, with the means which 
Heaven supplies them, to forward the end which brings you, too, 
together. A love of the human species is a very vague and 
indefinite kind of virtue, sitting very easily on a man, not con- 
fining his actions at all, shining in print, or exploding in para- 
graphs ; after which efforts of benevolence, the philanthropist is 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 217 

sometimes said to go home, and be no better than his neighbors. 
Tartuffe and Joseph Surface, Stiggins and Chadband, who are 
alwaj^s preaching fine sentiments, and are no more virtuous than 
hundreds of those whom they denounce and whom they cheat, 
are fair objects of mistrust and satire ; but their hypocrisy (tlie 
homage, according to the old saying, which vice pays to virtue) 
has this of good in it, — that its fruits are good. A man may 
preach good morals, though he may be himself but a lax practi- 
tioner : a Pharisee may put pieces of gold into the charity-plate 
out of mere hypocrisy and ostentation ; but the bad man's gold 
feeds the widow and fatherless as well as the good man's. The 
butcher and baker must needs look, not to motives, but to money, 
in return for their wares. I am not going to hint that we of the 
literary calling resemble Monsieur Tartuffe or Monsieur Stiggins ; 
though there may be such men in our body, as there are in all. 

A literary man of the humoristic turn is pretty sure to be of a 
philanthropic nature ; to have a great sensibility ; to be easily 
moved to pain or pleasure ; keenly to appreciate the varieties of 
temper of people round about him, and sympathize in their 
laughter, love, amusement, tears. Such a man is philanthropic, 
man-loving, by nature, as another is irascible or red-haired or six 
feet high. And so I would arrogate no particular merit to lit- 
erary mon for the possession of this faculty of doing good, which 
some of them enjoy. It costs a gentleman no sacrifice to be 
benevolent on paper; and the luxury of indulging in the most 
beautiful and brilliant sentiments never makes any man a penny 
the poorer. A literary man is no better than another, as far as 
my experience goes ; and a man writing a book, no better nor no 
worse than one who keeps accounts in a ledger, or follows any 
other occupation. Let us, however, give him credit for the good, 
at least, which he is the means of doing, as we give credit to a 
man with a million for the hundred which he puts into the plate 
at a charity-sermon. He never misses them : he has made 
them in a moment, by a lucky speculation ; and parts with them, 
knowing that he has an almost endless balance at his bank, 
whence he can call for more. But, in esteeming the benefaction, 
we are grateful to the benefactor too, somewhat. And so of men 
of genius, richly endowed, and lavish in parting with their 
mind's wealth : we may view them at least kindly and favorably, 
and be thankful for the bounty of which Providence has made 
them the dispensers. 

I have said myself somewhere, I do not know with what cor- 
rectness (for definitions never are complete), that humor is wit 
and love : I am sure, at any rate, that the best humor is that 
which contains most humanity, — that which is flavored throughout 
with tenderness and kindness. This love does not demand con- 



218 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

stant utterance or actual expression ; as a good father, in conver- 
sation with his children or wife, is not perpetually embracing 
them, or making protestations of his love ; as a lover in the 
society of his mistress is not, at least as far as I am led to be- 
lieve, for ever squeezing her hand, or sighing in her ear, " My 
soul's darling, I adore you ! " He shows his love by his conduct, 
by his fidelity, by his watchful desire to make the beloved person 
happy. It lightens from his eyes when she ajjpears, though he 
may not speak it ; it fills his heart when she is present or 
absent ; influences all his words and actions ; suffuses his whole 
being. It sets the father cheerily to work through the long day ; 
supports him through the tedious labor of the weary absence or 
journey; and sends him happy home again, yearning towards the 
wife and children. This kind of love is not a spasm, but a life. 
It fondles and caresses at due seasons, no doubt \ but the fond 
heart is always beating fondly and truly, though the wife is not 
sitting hand in hand with him, or the children hugging at his 
knee. And so with a loving humor. I think it is a genial 
writer's habit of being ; it is the kind, gentle spirit's way of look- 
ing out on the world, — that sweet friendliness which fills his 
heart and his style. You recognize it, even though there may 
not be a single point of wit or a single pathetic touch in the 
page, though you may not be called upon to salute his genius by 
a laugh or a tear. That collision of ideas which provokes the 
one or the other must be occasional. They must be like papa's 
embraces, which I spoke of anon, who only delivers them now 
and then, and can not be expected to go on kissing the children 
all night. And so the writer's jokes and sentiment, his ebulli- 
tions of feeling, his outbreaks of high spirits, must not be too 
frequent. One tires of a page of which every sentence sparkles 
with points ; of a sentimentalist who is always pumping the tears 
from his eyes or your own. One suspects the genuineness of the 
tear, the naturalness of the humor : these ought to be true and 
manly in a man, as every thing else in his life should be manly 
and true ; and he loses his dignity by laughing or weeping out 
of place, or too often. 

When the Rev. Laurence Sterne begins to sentimentalize over 
the carriage in Monsieur Dessein's courtyard, and pretends to 
squeeze a tear out of a rickety old shandrydan ; when, presently, 
he encounters the dead donkey on his road to Paris, and snivels 
over that asinine corpse, — I say, "Away, you drivelling quack ! do 
not palm off these grimaces of grief upon simple folks who know 
no better, and cry, misled by your hypocrisy." Tears are sacred. 
The tributes of kind hearts to misfortune, the mites wdiich gentle 
souls drop into the collections made for Grod's poor and unhappy, 
are not to be tricked out of them by a whimpering hypocrite 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 219 

handing round a begging-box for your compassion, and asking 
your pity for a lie. When that same man tells me of Lefevre's 
illness and Uncle Toby's charity, of the noble at Rennes com- 
ing home and reclaiming his sword, I thank him for the generous 
emotion, which, springing genuinely from his own heart, has 
caused mine to admire benevolence, and sympathize with honor, 
and to feel love and kindness and pity. 

If I do not love Swift (as, thank God ! I do not, however im- 
mensely I may admire him), it is because I revolt from the man 
who placards himself as a professional hater of his own kind ; 
because he chisels his savage indignation on his tombstone, as 
if to perpetuate his protest against being born of our race, — the 
suffering, the weak, the erring, the wicked, if you will, but still 
the friendly, the loving children of Grod our Father : it is because, 
as I read through Swift's dark volumes, I never find the aspect 
of Nature seems to delight him, the smiles of children to please 
him, the sight of wedded love to soothe him. I do not remem- 
ber, in any line of his writing, a passing allusion to a natural 
scene of beauty. When he speaks about the families of his com- 
rades and brother-clergymen, it is to assail them with gibes and 
scorn, and to laugh at them brutally for being fathers and for 
being poor. He does mention in the journal to Stella a sick 
child, to be sure, a child of Lady Masham, that was ill of the 
small-pox ; but then it is to confound the brat for being ill, and 
the mother for attending to it when she should have been busy 
about a court intrigue in which the dean was deeply engaged. 
And he alludes to a suitor of Stella's, and a match she might 
have made, and would have made, very likely, with an honorable 
and faithful and attached man, Tisdall, who loved her ; and of 
whom Swift speaks, in a letter to this lady, in language so foul, 
that you would not bear to hear it. In treating of the good the 
humorists have done, of the love and kindness they have taught 
and left behind them, it is not of this one I dare speak. Heaven 
help the lonely misanthrope ! be kind to that multitude of sins, 
with so little charity to cover them. 

Of Mr. Congreve's contributions to the English stock of 
benevolence, I do not speak ; for, of any moral legacy to pos- 
terity, I doubt whether that brilliant man ever thought at 
all. He had some money, as I have told; every shilling of 
which he left to his friend the Duchess of Marlborough, a lady 
of great fortune and the highest fashion. He gave the gold 
of his brains to persons of fortune and fashion too. There is 
no more feeling in his comedies than in as many books of 
Euclid. He no more pretends to teach love for the poor, and 
good-will for the unfortunate, than a dancing-master does: he 
teaches pirouettes and flic-flacs, and how to bow to a lady^ 



220 ENGLISH LITEKATUKE. 

and to walk a minuet. In liis private life, Congreve was im- 
mensely liked, — more so than any man of his age, almost, — and, 
to have been so liked, must have been kind and good-natured. 
His good nature bore him through extreme bodily ills and pain 
with uncommon cheerfulness and courage. Being so gay, so 
bright, so popular, such a grand seigneur, be sure he was kind to 
those about him, generous to his dependants, serviceable to his 
friends. Society does not like a man so long as it liked Congreve, 
unless he is likable ; it finds out a quack very soon ; it scorns a 
poltroon or a curmudgeon. We may be certain that this man was 
brave, good-tempered, and liberal. So, very likely, is Monsieur 
Pirouette, of whom we spoke : he cuts his capers, he grins, bows, 
and dances to his fiddle. In private, he may have a hundred 
virtues ; in public, he teaches dancing. His business is cotil- 
lons, not ethics. 

As much may be said of those charming and lazy epicureans, 
Gay and Prior, — sweet lyric singers, comrades of Anacreon, and 
disciples of love and the bottle. " Is there any moral shut within 
the bosom of a rose ? " sings our great Tennyson. Does a night- 
ingale preach from a bough, or the lark from his cloud ? Not 
knowingly ; yet we may be grateful, and love larks and roses, and 
the flower-crowned minstrels too, who laugh and who sing. 

Of Addison's contributions to the charity of the world, I have 
spoken before in trying to depict that noble figure, and say now, 
as then, that we should thank him as one of the greatest bene- 
factors of that vast and immeasurably spreading family which 
speaks our common tongue. Wherever it is spoken, there is no 
man that does not feel and understand and use the noble 
English word '' gentleman." And there is no man that teaches 
us to be gentlemen better than Joseph Addison, — gentle in our 
bearing through life ; gentle and courteous to our neighbors ; 
gentle in dealing with his follies and weaknesses ; gentle in 
treating his opposition ; deferential to the old ; kindly to the 
poor, and those below us in degree (for people above us and 
below us we must find, in whatever hemisphere we dwell, 
whether kings or presidents govern us) : and in no republic or 
monarchy that I know of is a citizen exempt from the tax of 
befriending poverty and weakness, of respecting age, and of hon- 
oring his father and mother. 

It has just been whispered to me, — I have not been three 
months in the countrj^, and, of course, can not venture to express 
an opinion of my own, — that, in regard to paying this latter tax 
of respect and honor to age, some very few of the republican 
youths are occasionally a little remiss. I have heard of j^oung 
sons of freedom publishing their Declaration of Independence 
before they could well spell it, and cutting the connection 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 221 

between father and mother before tbey had learned to shave. 
My own time of life having been stated by various enlightened 
organs of public opinion at almost any figure from forty-five to 
sixty, I cheerfully own that I belong to the Fogy interest, and 
ask leave to rank in, and plead for, that respectable class. Now, 
a gentleman can but be a gentleman in Broadway or the back- 
woods, in Pali-Mall or California ; and where and whenever he 
lives, thousands of miles away in the wilderness, or hundreds of 
years hence, I am sure that reading the writings of this true 
gentleman, this true Christian, this noble Joseph Addison, must 
do him good. He may take Sir Roger de Coverley to the dig- 
gings with him, and learn to be gentle and good-humored and 
.urbane and friendly in the midst of that struggle in which his 
life is engaged. I take leave to say, that the most brilliant 
youth of this city may read over this delightful memorial of a 
bygone age, of fashions long passed away, of manners long 
since changed and modified, of noble gentlemen, and a great 
and a brilliant and polished society, and find in it much to 
charm and polish, to refine and instruct him, — a courteousness 
which can be out of place at no time, and under no flag ; a polite- 
ness and simplicity ; a truthful manhood ; a gentle respect and 
deference, which may be kept as the unbought grace of life, and 
cheap defence of mankind, long after its old artificial distinctions, 
after periwigs and small-swords, and ruffles and red-heeled shoes, 
and titles and stars and garters, have passed away. I will tell 
you when I have been put in mind of two of the finest gentlemen 
books bring us any mention of; I mean our books (not books 
of history, but books of humor) ; I will tell you when I have 
been put in mind of the courteous gallantry of the noble knight 
Sir Roger de Coverley of Coverley Manor, of the noble Hidalgo 
Don Quixote of La Mancha, — here in your own omnibus- 
carriages and railway-cars, when I have seen a woman step in, 
handsome or not, well-dressed or not, and a workman in hobnail 
shoes, or a dandy in the higlit of the fashion, rise up and give 
her his place. I think Mr. Spectator, with his short face, if he 
had seen such a deed of courtesy, would have smiled a sweet 
smile to the doer of that gentleman-like action, and have made 
him a low bow from under his great periwig, and have gone home 
and written a pretty paper about him. 

I am sure Dick Steele would have hailed him, were he dandy 
or mechanic, and asked him to a tavern to share a bottle, or per- 
haps half a dozen. Mind, I do not set down the five last flasks 
to Dick's score for virtue, and look upon them as works of the 
most questionable supererogation. 

Steele, as a literary benefactor to the world's charity, must 
rank very high indeed ; not merely from his givings, which were 



222 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

abundant, but because bis endowments are prodigiously increased 
in value since he bequeathed them, as the revenues of the lands 
bequeathed to our Foundling Hospital at London, by honest-, 
Capt. Coram, its founder, are immensely enhanced by the houses 
since built upon them. Steele was the founder of sentimental 
writing in English ; and how the land has been since occupied ! 
and what hundreds of us have laid out gardens and built up 
tenements on Steele's ground ! Before his time, readers or hear- 
ers were never called upon to cry except at a tragedy; and com- 
passion was not expected to express itself otherwise than in 
blank verse, or for personages much lower in rank than a 
dethroned monarch, or a widowed or a jilted empress. He 
stepped off the high-heeled cothurnus, and came down into com- 
mon life ; he held out his great hearty arms, and embraced 
us all ; he had a bow for all women, a kiss for all children, a 
shake of the hand for all men, high or low ; he showed us 
heaven's sun shining every day on quiet homes, — not gilded 
palace-roofs only, or court processions, or heroic warriors fighting 
for princesses and pitched battles. He took away comedy from 
behind the fine lady's alcove, or the screen where the libertine 
was watching her. He ended all that wretched business of 
wives jeering at their husbands; of rakes laughing wives, and 
husbands too, to scorn. That miserable, rouged, tawdry, spar- 
kling, hollow-hearted comedy of the Restoration fled before him, 
and, like the wicked spirit in the fairy-books, shrank, as Steele 
let the da^dight in, and shrieked and shuddered and vanished. 
The stage of humorists has been common life ever since Steele's 
and Addison's time, — the joys and griefs, the aversions and sym- 
pathies, the laughter and tears, of Nature. 

And here, coming off the stage, and throwing aside the motley 
habit or satiric disguise in which he had before entertained you, 
mingling with the world, and wearing the same coat as his neigh- 
bors, the humorist's service became straightway immensely more 
available, his means of doing good infinitely multiplied, his 
success, and the esteem in which he was held, proportionately 
increased. It requires an effort, of which all minds are not capa- 
ble, to understand Don Quixote ; children and common people 
still read Gulliver for the story merely. Many more persons are 
sickened by Jonathan Wyld than can comprehend the satire of 
it. Each of the great men who wrote those books was speaking 
from behind the satiric mask I anon mentioned. Its distortions 
appall many simple spectators ; its settled sneer or laugh is unin- 
telligible to thousands, who have not the wit to interpret the 
meaning of the visored satirist preaching from within. Many a 
man was at fault about Jonathan Wyld's greatness, who could 
feel and relish AUworthy's goodness in Tom Jones, and Dr. 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 223 

Harrison's in Amelia, and dear Parson Adams, and Joseph An- 
drews. We love to read — we may grow ever so old, but we love 
to read of them still — of love and beauty, of frankness and 
bravery and generosity. We hate hypocrites and cowards ; we 
long to defend oppressed innocence, and to soothe and succor 
gentle women and children; we are glad when vice is foiled, 
and rascals punished ; we lend a foot to kick Blifil down stairs ; 
and, as we attend the brave bridegroom to his wedding on the 
happy marriage-day, we ask the groomsman's privilege to salute 
the blushing cheek of Sopliia. 

A lax moralit}'- in many a vital point I own in Fielding ; but 
a great hearty sympathy and benevolence, a great kindness for 
the poor, a great gentleness and pity for the unfortunate, a 
great love for the pure and good, — these are among the contribu- 
tions to tbe charity of the world with which this erring but 
noble creature endowed it. 

As for Goldsmith, if the youngest and most unlettered person 
here has not been happy with the family at Wakefield ; has not 
rejoiced when Olivia returned, and been thankful for her forgive- 
ness and restoration ; has not laughed with delighted good humor 
over Moses' gross of green spectacles ; has not loved with all his 
heart the good vicar, and that kind spirit which created these 
charming figures, and devised the beneficent fiction which speaks 
to us so tenderly, — what call is there for me to speak? In this 
place, and on this occasion, remembering these men, I claim 
from you your sympathy for the good they have done, and for the 
sweet charity which they have bestowed on the world. 

As for the charities of Mr. Dickens, multiplied kindnesses 
which he has conferred upon us all, upon our children, upon 
people educated and uneducated, upon the myriads here and at 
home who speak our common tongue, — have not you, have not I, 
all of us, reason to be thankful to this kind friend, who soothed 
and charmed so many hours ; brought pleasure and sweet laughter 
to so many homes ; made such multitudes of children happy ; 
endowed us with such a sweet store of gracious thoughts, fair 
fancies, soft sympathies, hearty enjoj^ments ? There are creations 
of Mr. Dickens's which seem to me to rank as personal benefits, — 
figures so delightful, that one feels happier and better for know- 
ing them, as one does for being brought into the society of very 
good men and women. The atmosphere in which these people 
live is wholesome to breathe in ; you feel that to be allowed to 
speak to them is a personal kindness ; you come away better for 
your contact with them ; your hands seem cleaner from having 
the privilege of shaking theirs. Was there ever a better charity- 
sermon preached in the world than Dickens's " Christmas 
Carol " ? I believe it occasioned immense hospitality throughout 



224 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

England ; was the means of lighting up hundreds of kind fires 
at Christmas time ; caused a wonderful outpouring of Christmas 
good-feeling, of Christmas punch-brewing, an awful slaughter 
of Christmas turkeys, and roasting and basting of Christmas 
beef. As for this man's love of children, that amiable organ at 
the back of his honest head must be perfectly monstrous. All 
children ought to love him. I know two that do, and read his 
books ten times for once that they peruse the dismal preachments 
of their father. I know one, who, when she is happy, reads 
"Nicholas Nickleby ;" when she is unhappy, reads "Nicholas Nic- 
kleby ; '^ when she is in bed, reads " Nicholas Nickleby ; " when she 
has nothing to do, reads "Nicholas Nickleby;" and, when she has 
finished the book, reads " Nicholas Nicklebj'- " over again. This 
candid young critic, at ten years of age, said, " I like Mr. Dick- 
ens's books much better than your books, papa ; " and frequently 
expressed her desire that the latter author should write a book 
like one of Mr. Dickens's books. Who can ? Every man must 
say his own thoughts in his own voice, in his own way : lucky is 
he who has such a charming gift of Nature as this, which brings 
all the children in the world trooping to him, and being fond of 
him ! 

I remember, when that famous " Nicholas Nickleby " came out, 
seeing a letter from a pedagogue in the north of England, which, 
dismal as it was, was immensely comical. "Mr. Dickens's ill- 
advised publication," wrote the poor schoolmaster, "has passed 
like a whirlwind over the schools of the north." He was a pro- 
prietor of a cheap school: Dotheboys Hall was a cheap school. 
There were many such establishments in the northern counties. 
Parents were ashamed, that never were ashamed before, until the 
kind satirist laughed at them ; relatives were frightened ; scores 
of little scholars were taken away ; poor schoolmasters had to 
shut their shops up ; every pedagogue was voted a Squeers (and 
many suffered, no doubt, unjustly) : but afterwards school-boys' 
backs were not so much caned; school-boys' meat was less tough, 
and more plentiful ; and school-boys' milk was not so sky-blue. 
What a kind light of benevolence it is that plays round Crum- 
mies and the Phenomenon, and all those poor theater-people, in 
that charming book ! What a humor ! and what a good humor ! 
I coincide with the youthful critic whose opinion has just been men- 
tioned, and own to a family admiration for " Nicholas Nickleby." 

One might go on, though the task would be endless and needless, 
chronicling the names of kind folks with whom this kind genius 
has made us familiar. Who does not love the Marchioness and 
Mr. Eichard Swiveller? Who does not sympathize, not only 
with Oliver Twist, but his admirable young friend the Artful 
Dodger ? Who has not the inestimable advantage of possessing 



OTHER EMINENT ENGLISH NOVELISTS. 225 

a Mrs. Nicldeby in his own family? Who does not bless Sairey 
Gamp, and wonder at Mrs. Harris ? Who does not venerate the 
chief of that illustrious family, who, being stricken by misfortune, 
wisely and greatly turned his attention to " coals," — the accom- 
plished, the epicurean, the dirty, the delightful Micawber ? 

I ma}^ quarrel with Mr. Dickens's art a thousand and a thou- 
sand times : I delight and wonder at his genius ; I recognize in 
it — I speak with aw^e and reverence — a commission from that 
Divine Beneficence, whose blessed task we know it will one day 
be to wipe every tear from every eye. Thankfully I take my 
share of the feast of love and kindness which this gentle and 
generous and charitable soul has contributed to the happiness of 
the world. I take and enjoy my share, and say a benediction 
for the meal. 



OTHER EMIlSrENT ENQLISH NOVELISTS. 

Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton. — 1805. Politician, orator, and author of great 
distinction'. " Richelieu," " Lady of Lyons," and other plays ; Milton " and " King 
Arthur," in verse; "The Siamese Twins" and "The New Timon," satires; " The 
Last Days of Pompeii," "Rienzi," "The Last of the Barons," "The Caxtons," 
" Mv Novel," and " What will he Do with It? " " Paul Clifford," " Eugene Aram," 
and^" Falkland." 

Benj A]MiN Disraeli. — 1805. Chancellor of the Exchequer under Lord Derby, 
and Premier in 1868. His brilliant novels have a political charactex-, and give him 
a high place in English literatui-e. " Vivian Grey," " The Young Duke," " Henri- 
etta'Temple," " Contarini Fleming," " Venetia,'' " The Wondrous Tale of Alroy," 
"Coningsby," "Sybil," " Tancred," and " Lothair," "Vindication of the English 
Constitution," " Biography of Lord Bentinck," &c. 

Charles Kingsley. — 1809. "Alton Locke," "Westward Ho!" "Yeast," 
"Hypatia," " Phcethon," " Alexandria and her Schools," " Glaucus," " Two Years 
Ago," "Water-Babies," "Saint's Traged}^," "Andromeda," "Miscellanies," "Ser- 
mons," " Poems," &c., all of much merit. 

Frederick Marryatt. — 1792-1848. Novelist of English sailor-life. "Frank 
Mildmay," "Newton Forster," " Peter Simple," "Jacob Faithful," "King's Own," 
" Pasha of Many Tales," "Midshipman Easy," " Snarley Yow," "Poor Jack," 
"Masterman Ready," and other works, popular of their kind. 

G. P. R. James. — 1801-1860. "Richelieu," and a long list of novels. 

Douglas Jerrold. — 1803-1857. His writings and conversation were full of 
genuine wit. "The Caudle Curtain-Lectures," '" St. Giles and St. James," and 
" Story of a Feather," " Black-eyed Susan," " The Rent Day," "Men of Charac- 
ter," "A Man made of Money,'' "The Clu'onicles of Clovernook," "The Bubbles 
of a Day," and " Time works"^ Wonders." 

Charles Lever. — 1806. "The Confessions of Harry Lorrequer," "Charles 
O'Malley," and "Jack Hinton," full of fun and fi'olic of Irish life; "Roland Cash- 
el," "The Knight of Gwynne," and "The Dodd Family Abroad," and other popu- 
lar fictions. 

Anthony Trollope. — 1815. " The Macdermots of Ballycloran," "The War- 
den," "Barchester Towers," " The West Indies and the Spanish Main," " Framley 
15 



226 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Parsonage," " Can You forgive Her ? " " The Last Chronicle of Barset," and several 
other novels of great merit. " Ralph, the Heir," now publishing. 

Charlotte BRO>fTE. — 1816-1855. Better known as " Currer Bell," a novelist 
of original power, true genius. "The Professor," "Jane Eyre," "Shirley," and 
" Villette." 

WiLKiE Collins. — 1824. "Life of his Father," "Antonina," "The Frozen 
Deep," a drama; "The Dead Secret," "No Name," "Basil," "After Dark," 
" Queen of Hearts," " Woman in White," and others of much popular favor. 

George Eliot (^liss Evaifs?). — Very popular author of "Scenes of Clerical 
Life," "Adam Bede," "The Mill on the Floss," "Silas Warner," "Felix Holt," 
" Eomola," " The Spanish Gypsy," and " How Lisa loved the King." 

William Carleton. — 1798. "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry," 
"Fardorougha the Miser," " Valentine McClutchy," " Willy Reilly," and others\ 

William H. Ainsworth. — 1805. "RoclcAvood," "Jack Sheppard," "The 
Tower of London," " Old St. Paul's," and " Windsor Castle," of an historical nature. 

Samuel Warren. — 1807. "Passages from the Diary of a Late Physician," 
" Ten Thousand a Year," and others. 

Dinah Marlv Mulock. — 1826. "The Ogilvies," "John Halifax, Gentleman," 
" Olive," and several others; also volume of poems. 

James Hannay. — 1827. "Singleton Fontenoy," "Eustace Conyers," "Lec- 
tures on Satire and Satirists," and "Essays from Quarterly Review." 

Elizabeth Gaskell. — "Mary Barton," and "Life of C. Bronte." 
George Gleig. — 1796. " The Subaltern," " The Chelsea Pensioners." 
Samuel Lover. — 1797. "Rory O'More," "Handy Andy," and Irish songs. 
John Banin. — 1800-1842. " The O'Hara Tales." 
Anne Marsh. — 1798. " Two Old Men's Tales," "Emilia Wyndham." 
Catherine Gore. — 1799-1861. "Mothers and Daughters ; " " Cecil, or the Ad- 
ventures of a Coxcomb." 

Gerald Griffin. — 1803-1840. "The Munster Tales," " The Collegians." . 
William H. Maxwell. — 1850. "Stories of Waterloo," " Hector O'Halloran." 
Anna M. Hall. — "The Buccaneer," "Marian," "Lights and Shadows of Irish 
Life." 

Albert Smith. — 1816-1860. "Mont Blanc and China," "Christopher Tad- 
pole," and "Mr. Ledbury," 

Shirley Brooks. — 1816. "The Gordian Knot," "Aspen Court," "The Silver 
Cord," and others. 

Angus B. Reach. — 1821-1856. "Clement Lorimer," "Leonard Lindsay," 
"Natural History of Bores and Humbugs," " Claret and Olives." 

James Grant. — 1822. "Romance of War," "Jane Seton," "Memorials of- 
Edinburgh Castle."- 

George Augustus Sala. — "Gaslight and Daylight in London," "Hogarth," 
" Seven Sons of Mammon," and others. 

Charles Reade. — " Peg Woffington," " Christie Johnston," "Never Too Late 
to jMend," and several others. 

Thomas Hughes. — " Scouring of the White Horse," "Tom Brown's School- 
Days," " Tom Brown at Oxford." 

Frank Smedley. — " Frank Fairlegh's Lewis Arundel." 

Mayne Reid.— " Scalp-Hunters." 

Geraldine Jewsbury. — "Zoe," and " Half-Sisters." 

Mrs. Catharine Crowe.— " Susan Hopley," "The Night-Side of Nature." 

And a legion, besides, of modern novelists. 



ALFRED TEKNYSON. 227 

ALERED TEE"NYSON. 

Born 1810. 

Poet Laureate since 1850. Critics somewhat divided as to his merits. Resem- 
bles Longfellow; and equally popular at home and abroad. The first of living 
English poets. 

PRINCIPAL PIECES. 

" The May Queen ; " " In Memoriam ; " " Locksley Hall ; " " Maud : " " The Idylls 
of the King; " " The Princess, a Medley; " " Morte d'Arthur; " " Godiva; " " Enoch 
Ardeu ; " " The Holy Grail." 



IN MEMORIAM,* 
I. 

I HELD it trutli, -witli liim who sings 

To one clear harp in divers tones, 

That men may rise on stepping-stones 
Of their dead selves to higher tlungs. 

But who shall so forecast the years, 

And find in loss a gain to match ? 

Or reach a hand through time to catch 
The far-ofi' interest of tears ? 

Let Love clasp Grief, lest both be drowned ; 

Let Darkness keep her raven gloss : 

Ah ! sweeter to be drunk with loss, 
To dance with death, to beat the ground, 

Than that the victor Hours should scorn 

The long result of love, and boast, 

" Behold the man that loved and lost ! 
But all he was is overworn." 

n. 

Old Yew, which graspest at the stones 

That name the underlying dead, 

Thy fibers net the dreamless head ; 
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones. 

The seasons bring the flower again. 

And bring the firstling to the flock ; 

And, in the dusk of thee, the clock 
Beats out the little lives of men. 

Oh ! not for thee the glow, the bloom, 

Who changest not in any gale ; 

Nor branding summer suns avail 
To touch thy thousand years of gloom. 

A hundred and thirty short poems ui memory of the poet's friend, Arthur H. Hallam. 



228 ENGLISH LITERATUBE. 

And gazing on thee, sullen tree, 
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood, 
I seem to fail from out my blood, 

And grow incorporate into thee. 

III. 

Sorrow, cruel fellowship ! 

O Priestess in the vaults of Death ! 

sweet and bitter in a breath ! 
What whispers from thy lying lip ? 

" The stars," she whispers, " blindly run ; 

A web is woven across the sky ; 

From out waste places comes a cry,' 
And murmurs from the dying sun ; 

" And all the phantom, Nature, stands, 
AVith all the music in her tone, 
A hollow echo of my own, — 

A hollow form with empty hands." 

And shall I take a thing so blind ? 

Embrace her as my natural good ? 

Or crush her, like a vice of blood. 
Upon the threshold of the mind ? 

lY. 

To Sleep I give my powers away ; 
My will is bondsman to the dark : 

1 sit within a helmless bark ; 

And with my heart I muse, and say, — 

" O heart ! how fares it with thee now, 
That thou shouldst fail from thy desire, 
^ Who scarcely darest to inquire, 

* What is it makes me beat so low ? * 

" Something it is which thou hast lost ; 

Some pleasure from thine early years. 

Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears, 
That grief hath shaken into frost ! " 

Such clouds of nameless trouble cross 
All night below the darkened eyes : 
With morning wakes the will, and cries, 

" Thou shalt not be the fool of loss." 

V. 

1 SOMETIMES hold it half a sin 

To put in words the grief I feel ; 
For words, like Nature, half reveal, 
And half conceal, the soul within. 



ALFEED TENNYSON. 229 

But, for the unquiet heart and brain, 

A use in measured language lies ; 

The sad mechanic exercise, 
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. 

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, 

Like coarsest clothes against the cold ; 

But that large grief which these infold 
Is given in outline, and no more. 

VI. 



That " loss is common to the race ; " 
And common is the commonplace. 
And vacant chaff well meant for grain. 

That loss is common would not make 
My own less bitter ; rather more : 
Too common ! Never morning wore 

To evening, but some heart did break. 

O father, wheresoe'er thou be. 
Who pledgest now thy gallant son ! 
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, 

Hath stilled the life that beat from thee. 

O mother, praying God will save 
Thy sailor ! while thy head is bowed, 
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud 

Drops in his vast and wandering grave. 

Ye know no more than I who wrought 
At that last hour to please him well ; 
Who mused on all I had to tell. 

And something written, something thought : 

Expecting still his advent home ; 
And ever met him on his way 
With wishes, thinking, " Here to-day, 

Or here to-morrow, will he come." 

Oh ! somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, 
That sittest ranging golden hair, 
And glad to find thyself so fair. 

Poor child, that waitest for thy love ! 

For now her father's chimney glows 

In expectation of a guest ; 

And thinking, " This will please him best,' 
She takes a ribbon or a rose : 

For he will see them on to-night ; 

(And with the thought her color burns :) 
And, having left the glass, she turns 

Once more to set a ringlet right ; 



230 ENGLISH LITEEATTJKE. 

And, even when slie turned, the curse 
Had fallen, and her future lord 
Was drowned in passing through the ford, 

Or killed in falling from his horse. 

Oh ! what to her shall be the end ? 

And what to me remains of good ? 

To her, perpetual maidenhood ; 
And unto me, no second friend. 



VII. 

Dark house, by which once more I stand 
Here in the long, unlovely street ; 
Doors, where my heart was used to beat 

So quickly, waiting for a hand, — 

A hand that can be clasped no more, — 
Behold me ! for I can not sleep ; 
And like a guilty thing I creep 

At earliest morning to the door. 

He is not here : but far away 
The noise of life begins again ; 
And ghastly through the drizzling rain 

On the bald street breaks the blank day. 

vin. 

A HAPPY lover, who has come 

To look on her that loves him well ; 
Who 'lights, and rings the gateway-bell, 

And learns her gone, and far from home ; 

He saddens ; all the magic light 

Dies off at once from bower and hall ; 
And all the place is dark, and all 

The chambers eiiiptied of delight : 

So find I every pleasant spot 
In which we two were wont to meet, — 
The field, the chamber, and the street ; 

For all is dark where thou art not. 

Yet as that other, wandering there 
In those deserted walks, may find 
A flower, beat with rain and wind, 

Which once she fostered up with care : 

So seems it in my deep regret, 
O my forsaken heart ! with thee ; 
And this poor flower of poesy, 

Which, little cared for, fades not yet. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 231 

But, since it pleased a vanished eye, 

I go to plant it on bis tomb, 

That, if it can, it there may bloom ; 
Or, dying, there at least may die. 

IX. 

Fair ship, that from the Italian shore 

Sailest the placid ocean-plains 

With my lost Arthur's loved remains. 
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. 

So draw him home to those that mourn 

In vain : a favorable speed 

Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead 
Through prosperous floods his holy urn. 

All night no ruder air perplex 

Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright 

As our pure love, through early light 
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. 

Sphere all your lights around, above ! 

Sleep, gentle heavens ! before the prow ; 

Sleep, gentle winds ! as he sleeps now, -— 
My friend, the brother of my love; 

My Arthur, whom I shall not see 
• Till all my widowed race be run ; 

Dear as the mother to the son, 
More than my brothers are to me. 



I HEAR the noise about thy keel ; 

I hear the bell struck in the night ; 

I see the cabin-window bright ; 
I see the sailor at the wheel. 

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife. 
And traveled men from foreign lands, 
And letters unto trembling hands, 

And thy dark freight, — a vanished life. 

So bring him. We have idle dreams : 
Tliis look of quiet flatters thus 
Our home-bred fancies : oh ! to us, 

The fools of habit, sweeter seems 

To rest beneath the clover-sod 

That takes the sunshine and the rains. 
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains 

The chalice of the grapes of God, 



232 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Than if with thee the roaring wells 
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine, 
And hands so often clasped in mine 

Should toss with tangle and with shells. 



XI. 

Calm is the morn, without a sound ; 

Calm as to suit a calmer grief ; 

And only through the faded leaf 
The chestnut pattering to the ground. 

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, 
And on these dews that drench the furze, 
And all the silvery gossamers 

That twinkle into green and gold. 

Calm and still light on yon great plain. 
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, 
And crowded farms and lessening towers, 

To mingle with the bounding main. 

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, 
These leaves that redden to the fall ; 
And in my heart, if calm at all. 

If any calm, a calm despair. 

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep. 

And waves that sway themselves in rest ; 
And dead calm in that noble breast, 

Which heaves but with the heaving deep. 

XII. 

Lo ! as a dove when up she springs 

To bear through heaven a tale of woe, — 
Some dolorous message knit below 

The wild pulsations of her wings : 

Like her I go ; I can not stay ; 
I leave this mortal ark behind, — 
A weight of nerves without a mind, — 

And leave the cliffs, and haste away 

O'er ocean-mirrors rounded large. 

And reach the glow of southern skies. 
And see the sails at distance rise, 

And linger weeping on the marge, 

And saying, " Comes he thus, my friend ? 
Is this the end of all my care ? " 
And circle, moaning in the air, 

" Is this the end ? is this the end ? " 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 233 

And forward dart again, and play 

About the prow, and back return 

To where the body sits, and learn 
That I have been an hour away. 



xvm. 

*Tis well, 'tis something, we may stand 
Wliere he in English earth is laid, 
And from his ashes may be made 

The violet of his native land. 

'Tis little ; but it looks in truth 
As if the quiet bones were blest, 
Among familiar names to rest, 

And in the places of his youth. 

Come then, pure hands, and bear the head 
That sleeps, or wears the mask of sleep ; 
And come, whatever loves to weep, 

And hear the ritual of the dead. 

Ah ! yet, even yet, if this might be, 

I, falling on his faithful heart. 

Would, breathing through his lips, impart 
The life that almost dies in me, — 

That dies not, but endures with pain. 
And slowly forms the firmer mind, 
Treasuring the look it can not find, 

The words that are not heard again. 

XIX. 

The Danube to the Severn gave 

The darkened heart that beat no more : 
They laid him by the pleasant shore, 

And in the hearing of the wave. 

There twice a day the Severn fills ; 
The salt sea-water passes by. 
And hushes half the babbling Wye, 

And makes a silence in the hills. 

The Wye is hushed, nor moved along ; 
And hushed my deepest grief of all, 
When, filled with tears that can not fall, 

I brim with sorrow drowning song. 

Tlie tide flows down ; the wave again 

Is vocal in its wooded walls : 

My deeper anguish also falls. 
And I can speak a little then. 



234 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



XXYII. 



I ENVY not in any moods 

The captive void of noble rage ; 
The linnet born within the cage, 

That never knew the summer woods : 

I envy not the beast that takes 
His license in the field of time, 
Unfettered by the sense of crime. 

To whom a conscience never wakes : 

Nor, what may count itself as blest, 
The heart that never plighted troth, 
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth ; 

Nor any want-begotten rest. 

I hold it true, whate'er befall, — 
I feel it when I sorrow most, — 
'Tis better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all. 



CV. 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light : 
The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new ; 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow : 
The year is going, — let him go : 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
For those that here we see no more ; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor ; 

Ring in redress to all mankind. . 

Ring out a slowly-dying cause. 

And ancient forms of party strife ; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness, of the times ; 
Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite ; 
Ring in the love of truth and right ; 

Ring in the common love of good. 



ALFBED TENNYSON-. 235 



Eing out old shapes of foul disease ; 
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold 
Ring out the thousand wars of old ; 

Ring in the thousand years of peace. 



Ring in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; 
Ring out the darkness of the land ; 

Rino- in the Christ that is to be. 



THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 

1. 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death, 

Rode the six hundred. 
" Forward, the Light Brigade I 
Charge for the guns ! " he said. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the sbc hundred. 

2. 

" Forward, the Light Brigade ! ** 
Was there a man dismayed ? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered : 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die. 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

3. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them. 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well : 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell, 

Rode the six hundred. 

4. 

Flashed all their sabers bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabering the gunners there, 



236 ENGLISH LITERATUBE. 

Charging an army, while 

All the world wondered : 
Plunged in the battery-smoke, 
Right through the line they broke ; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the saber-stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they, rode back ; but not — 
Not the six hundred. 

5. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them, 

Volleyed and thundered : 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, — 

Left of six hundred. 

6. 

When can their glory fade ? 
Oh the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade ! — 

Noble six hundred ! 



ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. 

1. 

Bury the Great Duke 

With an empire's lamentation ; 
Let us bury the Great Duke 

To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, — 
Mourning when their leaders fall, 
Warriors carry the warrior's pall. 
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. 

2. 

Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore ? 
Here, in streaming London's central roar, 
Let the sound of those he wrought for, 
And the feet of those he fought for. 
Echo round his bones for evermore. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 237 



3. 

Lead out the pageant : sad and slow, 

As fits a universal woe, 

Let the long, long procession go, 

And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 

And let the mournful martial music blow : 

The last great Englishman is low. 

4. 

Mourn ; for to us he seems the last, 

Remembering all his greatness in the past. 

No more in soldier fashion will he greet 

With lifted hand the gazer in the street. 

O friends ! our chief state-oracle is dead : 

Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood, 

The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute, 

Whole in himself, a common good ; 

Mourn for the man of amplest influence, 

Yet clearest of ambitious crime. 

Our greatest, yet with least pretense, — 

Great in council and great in war. 

Foremost captain of his time, 

Rich in saving common sense, 

And, as the greatest only are, 

Li his simplicity sublime. 

O good gray head which all men knew ! 

O voice from which their omens all men drew 1 

O iron nerve to true occasion true ! 

Oh, fallen at length that tower of strength 

Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew I 

Such was he whom we deplore. 

The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er : 

The great world-victor's victor will be seen no more. 



All is over and done. 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

England, for thy son ; 

Let the bell be tolled ; 

Render thanks to the Giver, 

And render him to the mold. 

Under the cross of gold 

That shines over city and river, 

There he shall rest for ever 

Among the wise and the bold. 

Let the bell be tolled. 

And a reverent people behold 

The towering car, the sable steeds : 

Bright let it be with his blazoned deeds. 

Dark in its funeral fold. 

Let the bell be tolled ; 



238 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And a deeper knell in the heart be knolled ; 

And the sound of the sorrowing anthem rolled 

Through the dome of the golden cross ; 

And the volleying cannon thunder his loss. 

He knew their voices of old ; 

For many a time in many a clime 

His captain's ear has heard them boom, 

Bellowing victory, bellowing doom ; 

"Wlien he with those deep voices wrought, 

Guarding realms and kings from shame ; 

With those deep voices our dead captain taught 

The tyrant, and asserts his claim 

In that dread sound to the great name 

Which he has worn so pure of blame, 

In praise and in dispraise the same, — 

A man of well-attempered frame. 

O civic Muse ! to such a name. 

To such a name 

To such a name, 

Preserve a broad approach of fame, 

And ever-ringing avenues of song. 

6. 

"Who is he that cometh, like an honored guest, 

With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest, 

With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest ? " 

" Mighty seaman, this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man, — 

The greatest sailor since our world began. 

Now, to the roll of muffled drums, 

To thee the greatest soldier comes ; 

For this is he 

Was great by land as thou by sea. 

His foes were thine ; he kept us free. 

Oh ! give him welcome : this is he, 

Worthy of our gorgeous rites, 

And worthy to be laid by thee ; 

For this is England's greatest son, — 

He that gained a hundred fights. 

Nor ever lost an English gun ; 

This is he, that far away, 

Against the myriads of Assaye, 

Clashed with his fiery few, and won ; 

And underneath another sun. 

Warring on a later day, 

Round affrighted Lisbon drew 

The treble works, the vast designs, 

Of his labored rampart-lines. 

Where he greatly stood at bay ; 

Whence he issued forth anew. 

And ever great and greater grew, 



ALFEED TENNYSON. 230 



Beating from the wasted vines 

Back to France her banded swarms, 

Back to France with countless blows, 

Till o'er the hills her eagles flew 

Past the Pyrenean pines, 

Followed up in valley and glen 

With blare of bugle, clamor of men, 

Roll of cannon, and clash of arms. 

And England pouring on her foes : 

Such a war had such a close. 

Again their ravening eagle rose 

In anger, Avheeled on Europe-shadowing wings, 

And barking for the thrones of kings ; 

Till one, that sought but Duty's iron crown, 

On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down : 

A day of onsets of despair I 

Dashed on every rocky square. 

Their surging charges foamed themselves away. 

Last, the Prussian trumpet blew : 

Through the long-tormented air 

Heaven flashed a sudden jubilant ray ; 

And down we swept and charged and overthrew. 

So great a soldier taught us there 

What long-enduring hearts could do 

In that world's-earthquake, AVaterloo ! 

Mighty seaman, tender and true. 

And pure as he from taint of craven guile, 

O savior of the silver-coasted isle ! 

O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile 1 

If aught of things that here befell 

Touch a spirit among things divine. 

If love of country move thee there at all, 

Be glad because his bones are laid by thine 

And through the centuries let a people's voice, 

In full acclaim, — 

A people's voice. 

The proof and echo of all human fame, — 

A people's voice, when they rejoice 

At civic revel and pomp and game, — 

Attest their great commander's claim 

AVith honor, honor, honor to him, — 

Eternal honor to his name." 



A people's voice ! We are a people yet. 
Though all men else their nobler dreams forget, 
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless powers. 
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set 
His Saxon in blown seas and storming showers. 
We have a voice with which to pay the debt 
Of boundless love and reverence and regret 
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours. 



240 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

And keep it ours, O God ! from brute control. 
O statesmen ! guard us ; guard the eye, the soul, 
Of* Europe ; keep our noble England whole, 
And save the one true seed of freedom sown 
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne, — 
That sober freedom out of which there springs 
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings : 
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind, 
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust ; 
And drill the raw world for the march of mind, 
Till crowds at length be sane, and crowns be just. 
But wink no more in slothful overtrust. 
Remember him who led your hosts : 
He bade you guard the sacred coasts. 
Your cannons molder on the seaward wall: 
His voice is silent in your council-hall 
For ever, and, whatever tempests lower, 
For ever silent ; even if they broke 
In thunder, silent : yet remember all 
He spoke among you, and the man who spoke ; 
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour, 
Nor paltered with Eternal God for power ; 
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow 
Through either babbling world of high and low j 
Whose life was work, whose language rife 
With rugged maxims hewn from life ; 
Who never spoke against a foe ; 
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke 
All great self-seekers trampling on the right. 
Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named; 
Truth-lover was our English Duke : 
Whatever record leap to light. 
He never shall he shamed. 

8. 

Lo ! the leader in these glorious wars 
Now to glorious burial slowly borne, 
Followed by the brave of other lands, — 
He on whom from both her open hands 
Lavish Honor showered all her stars. 
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn. 
Yea, let all good things await' 
Him who cares not to be great 
But as he saves or serves the State. 
Not once or twice in our rough island-story, 
The path of duty was the way to glory. 
He that walks it, only thirsting 
For the right, and learns to deaden 
Love of self, before his journey closes 
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting 
Into glossy purples which outredden 
All voluptuous garden-roses. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 241 

Not once or twice in our fair island-story, 

The path of duty was the way to glory. 

He that, ever following her commands, 

On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 

Through the long gorge to the far light has won 

His path upward, and prevailed, 

Shall find tbe toppling crags of Duty scaled 

Are close upon the shining table-lands 

To which our God himself is moon and sun. 

Such was he : his work is done. 

But, while the races of mankind endure, 

Let his great example stand 

Colossal, seen of every land, 

And keep the soldier firm, the statesman purct 

Till in all lands, and through all human story, 

The path of duty be the way to glory. 

And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame, 

For many and many an age proclaim 

At civic revel and pomp and game, 

And when the long-illumined cities flame, 

Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame. 

With honor, honor, honor, honor to him, — 

Eternal honor to his name. 

9. 

Peace ! his triumph will be sung 

By some yet unmolded tongue 

Far on in summers that we shall not see. 

Peace 1 it is a day of pain 

For one about whose patriarchal knee 

Late the little children clung. 

Oh, peace ! it is a day of pain 

For one upon whose hand and heart and brain 

Once the weight and fate of Europe hung. 

Ours the pain : be his the gain ! 

More than is of man's degree 

Must be with us, watching here 

At this our great solemnity. 

Whom we see not we revere ; 

We revere, and we refrain 

From talk of battles loud and vain, 

And brawling memories all too free 

For such a wise humility 

As befits a solemn fane : 

We revere ; and, while we hear 

The tides of Music's golden sea 

Setting toward eternity, 

Uplifted high in heart and hope are we, 

Until we doubt not that for one so true 

There must be other, nobler work to do 

Than when he fought at Waterloo ; 

And victor he must ever be. 

16 



242 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

For though the Giant Ages heave the hill, 

And break the shore, and evermore 

Make and break, and work their will ; 

Though world on world in myriad myriads roll 

Round us, each with different powers, 

And other forms of life than ours, — 

What know we greater than the soul ? 

On God and Godlike men we bu:ild our trust. . 

Hush ! the Dead March wails in the people's ears ; 

The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears; 

The black earth yaw^ns ; the mortal disappears ; 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust : 

He is gone who seemed so great, — 

Gone ; but nothing can bereave him 

Of the force he made his own 

Being here ; and we believe him 

Something far advanced in state, 

And that he wears a truer crown 

Tlian any wreath that man can weave him. 

But speak no more of his renown : 

Lay your earthly fancies do-svn, 

And in the vast cathedral leave him. 

God accept him ! Christ receive him ! 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

1770-1850. 

" The Lake schooi of poets " was contemptuously so called because "Wordsworth, 
Coleridge, and Southe_y, its founders, lived by the English lakes. Catching their in- 
spiration from the usually unheeded voices of Nature, and giving it utterance in 
plain, simple EngUsh, the}^ terribly excited the Avrath and ridicule of the critics. 
Though steadily gaining in favor, Wordsworth's position as a poet still divides 
opinion. 

PKINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

" Lyrical Ballads," 1798; "White Doe of Rylstone;" "Peter Bell;" "Sonnets 
on the River Duddon;" "The Wagoner;" "Memorials of a Tour on the Conti- 
nent;" "Ecclesiastical Sonnets;" " Yarrow Revisited, and Other Poems; " "The 
Excursion," part of an unfinished epic. " The Recluse " is his greatest work. 



MILTON. 

MiLTOi^, thou shouldst be living at this hour ! 
England hath need of thee : she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters. Altar, sw^ord, and pen. 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 



WILLIAM WOEDS WORTH. 243 

Have forfeited their ancient English dower 

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men : 

Oh ! raise us up ; return to us again, 

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 

Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart ; 

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea ; 

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free : 

So didst thou travel on life's common way 

In cheerful godhness ; and yet thy heart 

The lowliest duties on herself didst lay. 



DESPONDENCY CORRECTED. 

" One adequate support 
For the calamities of mortal life 
Exists ; one only, — an assured belief 
That the procession of our fate, howe'er 
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being 
Of infinite benevolence and power. 
Whose everlasting purposes embrace 
All accidents, converting them to good. 
The darts of anguish fix not where the seat 
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified 
By acquiescence in the Will supreme, 
For time and for eternity ; by faith, — • 
Faith absolute in God, including hojie. 
And the defense that lies in boundless love 
Of his perfections ; with habitual dread 
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured 
To the dishonor of his holy name. 
Soul of our souls, and Safeguard of the world ! 
Sustain, thou only canst, the sick of heart ; 
Restore their languid spirits, and recall 
Their lost affections unto thee and thine ! " 

Then, as we issued from that covert nook, 
He thus continued, lifting up his eyes 
To heaven : " How beautiful this dome of sky I 
And the vast hills in fluctuation fixed 
At thy command, how awful ! Shall the soul, 
Human and rational, report of thee 
Even less than these ? Be mute who will, who can ; 
Yet I will praise thee with impassioned voice : 
My lips, that may forget thee in the crowd. 
Can not forget thee here, where thou hast built 
For thy own glory, in the wilderness ! 
Me didst thou constitute a priest of thine 
In such a temple as we now behold 
Reared for thy presence : therefore am I bound 
To worship, here and everywhere, as one 



,2M ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Not doomed to ignorance, though forced to tread 
From childhood up the ways of poverty ; 
From unreflecting ignorance preserved, 
And from debasement rescued. By thy grace 
The particle divine remained unquenched ; 
And, 'mid the wild weeds of a rugged soil, 
Thy bounty caused to flourish deathless flowers 
From Paradise transplanted. Wintry age . 
Impends ; the frost will gather round my heart : 
If the flowers wither, I am worse than dead ! 
Come labor when the worn-out frame requires 
Perpetual sabbath ; come disease and want, 
And sad exclusion through decay of sense : 
But leave me unabated trust in thee, 
And let thy favor, to the end of life, 
Inspire me with ability to seek 
Repose and hope among eternal things. 
Father of heaven and earth ! and I am rich, 
And will possess my portion in content. 

" And what are things eternal ? Powers depart," 
The gray-haired wanderer steadfastly replied, — 
Answering the question which himself had asked, — 
" Possessions vanish, and opinions change, 
And passions hold a fluctuating seat ; 
But by the storms of circumstance unshaken, 
And subject neither to eclipse nor wane. 
Duty exists. Immutably survive. 
For our support, the measures and the forms 
Which an abstract intelligence supplies ; 
Whose kingdom is where time and si)ace are not. 
Of other converse which mind, soul, and heart 
Do with united urgency require, 

What more that may not perish ? Thou dread Source, 
Prime, self-existing Cause and End of all 
That in the scale of being fill their place, 
Above our human region, or below, 
Set and sustained ; Thou who didst wrap the cloud 
Of infancy around us, that Thyself 
Therein with our simplicity a while 
Mightst hold on earth communion undisturbed ; 
Who from the anarchy of dreaming sleep, 
Or from its death-like void, with punctual care, 
And touch as gentle as the morning light, 
Restor'st us daily to the powers of sense 
And reason's steadfast rule, — Thou, Thou alone, 
Art everlasting, and the blessed spirits. 
Which Thou includest, as the sea her waves : 
For adoration thou endurest ; endure 
For consciousness the motions of thy will ; 
For apprehension those transcendent truths 
Of the pure intellect, that stand as laws 



WILLIAM WORDSWOETH. 245 

(Submission constituting strength and power) 

Even to thy being's infinite majesty I 

This universe shall pass away, — a work 

Glorious, because the shadow of thy might ; 

A step, or link, for intercourse with thee. 

Ah ! if the time must come in which my feet 

No more shall stray where meditation leads, 

By flowing stream, through wood, or craggy wild, 

Loved haunts like these, the unimprisoned Mind 

May yet have scope to range among her own, 

Her thoughts, her images, her high desires. 

If the dear faculty of sight should fail, 

Still it may be allowed me to remember 

What visionary powers of eye and soul 

In youth were mine, when, stationed on the top 

Of some huge hill, expectant, I beheld 

The sun rise up, from distant climes returned, 

Darkness to chase and sleep, and bring the day, 

His bounteous gift ; or saw him toward the deep 

Sink, with a retinue of flaming clouds 

Attended : then my spirit was entranced 

With joy exalted to beatitude ; 

The measure of my soul was filled with bliss 

And holiest love, as earth, sea, air, with light, 

With pomp, with glory, with magnificence. 

" Tliose fervent raptures are for ever flown ; 
And, since their date, my soul hath undergone 
Change manifold for better or for worse : 
Yet cease I not to struggle, and aspire 
Heavenward, and chide the part of me that flags 
Through sinful choice, or dread necessity 
On human nature from above imposed. 
'Tis, by comparison, an easy task 
Earth to despise ; but to converse with heaven — 
This is not easy. To relinquish all 
We have or hope of happiness and joy, 
And stand in freedom loosened from this world, 
I deem not arduous; but must needs confess 
That 'tis a thing impossible to frame 
Conceptions equal to the soul's desires, 
And the most difficult of tasks to keep 
Hights which the soul is competent to gain. 
Man is of dust : ethereal hopes are his, 
AVhich, when they should sustain themselves aloft, 
Want due consistence ; like a pillar of smoke. 
That with majestic energy from earth 
Rises, but, having reached the thinner air, 
Melts and dissolves, and is no longer seen. 
From this infirmity of mortal kind 
Sorrow proceeds, which else were not : at least, 
If grief be something hallowed and ordained ; 



246 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

If, in proportion, it be just and meet, — 

Yet through this weakness of tlie general heart 

Is it enabled to maintain its hold 

In that excess which conscience disapproves. 

For wiio could sink and settle to that point 

Of selfishness, so senseless who could be, 

As long and perseveringly to mourn 

For any object of his love removed 

From this unstable world, if he could fix 

A satisfying view upon that state 

Of pure, imperishable blessedness 

Which reason promises, and Holy Writ 

Insures to all believers ? Yet mistrust 

Is of such incapacity, methinks, 

No natural branch ; despondency far less ; 

And least of all is absolute despair. 

" And if there be whose tender frames have drooped 
Even to the dust, apparently through weight 
Of anguish unrelieved, and lack of power 
An agonizing sorrow to transmute, 
Deem not that proof is here of hope withheld 
When wanted most, — a confidence impaired 
So pitiably, that, having ceased to see 
With bodily eyes, they are borne down by love 
Of what is lost, and perish through regret. 
Oh, no ! the innocent sufferer often sees 
Too clearly, feels too vividly, and longs 
To realize, the vision with intense 
And over-constant yearning: there, there lies 
The excess by which the balance is destroyed. 
Too, too contracted are these walls of flesh, 
This vital warmth too cold, these visual orbs, 
Though inconceivably endowed, too dim, 
For any passion of the soul that leads 
To ecstasy ; and, all the crooked paths 
Of time and change disdaining, takes its course 
Along the line of limitless desires. 
I, speaking now, from such disorder free, 
Nor rapt nor craving, but in settled peace, — 
I can not doubt that they whom you deplore 
Are glorified, or, if they sleep, shall wake 
From sleep, and dwell with God in endless love. 
Hope below this consists not with belief 
In mercy carried infinite degrees 
Beyond the tenderness of human hearts ; 
Hope beloAv this consists not witli belief 
In pei^fect wisdom, guiding mightiest power. 
That finds no limits but her own pure will. 

" Here, then, we rest, not fearing for our creed 
The worst that human reasoning can achieve 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 247 

To unsettle or perplex it ; yet with pain 

Acknowledging, and grievous self-reproach, 

That, though immovably convinced, we want 

Zeal, and the virtue to exist by faith, 

As soldiers live by courage ; as, by strength 

Of heart, the sailor fights with roaring seas. 

Alas ! the endoAvment of immortal power 

Is matched unequally with custom, time, 

And domineering faculties of sense 

In all ; in most, with superadded foes, — 

Idle temptations, open vanities, 

Ephemeral offspring of the unblushing world, 

And, in the private regions of the mind, 

Ill-governed passions, ranklings of despite. 

Immoderate wishes, pining discontent. 

Distress, and care. What then remains ? To seek 

Those helps for his occasions ever near 

Who lacks not will to use them, — vows renewed 

On the first ©lOtion of a holy thought ; 

Vigils of contemplation, praise, and prayer, — 

A stream, which, from the fountain of the heart 

Issuing, however feebly, nowhere flows 

Witiiout access of unexpected strength. 

But, above all, the victory is most sure 

For him, who, seeking faith by virtue, strives 

To yield entire submission to the law 

Of conscience, — conscience reverenced and obeyed 

As God's most intimate presence in the soul. 

And his most perfect image in the world. 

Endeavor thus to live, these rules regard, 

These helps solicit, and a steadfast seat 

Shall then be yours among the happy few 

Who dwell on earth, yet breathe empyreal air. 

Sons of the morning. For your nobler part. 

Ere disencumbered of her mortal chains, 

Doubt shall be quelled, and trouble chased away. 

With only such degree of sadness left 

As may support longings of pure desire. 

And strengthen love, rejoicing secretly 

In the sublime attractions of the grave." 

While in this strain the venerable sage 
Poured forth his aspirations, and announced 
His judgments, near that lonely house we paced 
A plot of greensward, seemingly preserved 
By Nature's care from wreck of scattered stones, 
And from encroachment of encircling hearth : 
Small space ! but, for reiterated steps. 
Smooth and commodious as a stately deck 
Which to and fro the mariner is used 
To tread for pastime, talking with his mates. 
Or haply thinking of far-distant friends, 



248 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Wliile the ship glides before a steady breeze. 

Stillness prevailed around iis ; and the voice 

That spake was capable to lift the soul 

Toward regions yet more tranquil. But methought 

That he whose fixed despondency had given 

Impulse and motive to that strong discourse 

Was less upraised in spirit than abashed ; 

Shrinking from admonition like a man 

Who feels that to exhort is to reproach. 

Yet, not to be diverted from his aim, 

The sage continued : — 

" For that other loss, — 
The loss of confidence in social man, 
By the unexpected transports of our age 
Carried so high, that every thought which looked 
Beyond tlie temporal destiny of the kind 
To many seemed superfluous, — as no cause 
Could e'er for such exalted confidence 
Exist, so none is now for fixed despair. 
The two extremes are equally disowned 
By reason : if, with sharp recoil, from one 
You have been driven far as its opposite, 
Between them seek the point whereon to build 
Sound expectations. So doth he advise 
Who shared at first the illusion, but was soon 
Cast from the pedestal of pride by shocks 
Which Nature gently gave in woods and fields, 
Nor unreproved by Providence, thus speaking 
To the inattentive children of the world : — 
' Vainglorious generation ! what new powers 
On you have been conferred, what gifts withheld 
From your progenitors have ye received. 
Fit recompense of new desert, what claim 
Are ye prepared to urge, that my decrees 
For you should undergo a sudden change, 
And, the weak functions of one busy day 
Reclaiming and extirpating, perform 
What all the slowly-moving years of time, 
With their united force, have left undone ? 
By Nature's gradual processes be taught ; 
By story be confounded. Ye aspire 
Rashly, to fall once more ; and that false fruit, 
Which to your overweening spirits yields 
Hope of a flight celestial, Avill produce 
Misery and shame. But Wisdom of her sons 
Shall not the less, though late, be justified.' 

" Such timely warning," said the wanderer, 
" Gave that visionary voice : and at this day, 
When a Tartarean darkness overspreads 
The groaning nations ; when the impious rule. 
By will or by established ordinance. 



WILLIAM WOEDSWOKTH. 249 

Their own dire agents, and constrain the good 
To acts which they abhor, — though I bewail 
This triumph, yet the pity of my heart 
Prevents me not from owning that the law 
By which mankind now suifers is most just. 
For by superior energies, more strict 
Affiance in each other, faith more firm 
In their unhallowed principles, the bad 
Have fairly earned a victory o'er the weak, 
The vacillating, inconsistent good. 

" Therefore, not unconsoled, I wait in hope 
To see the moment when the righteous cause 
Shall gain defenders zealous and devout 
As they who have opposed her '; in which Virtue 
Will to her efforts tolerate no bounds 
That are not lofty as her rights, aspiring 
By impulse of her own ethereal zeal. 
That spirit only can redeem mankind ; 
And when that sacred spirit shall appear. 
Then shall our triumph be complete as theirs. 
Yet, should this confidence prove vain, the wise 
Have still the keeping of their proper peace ; 
Are guardians of their own tranquillity. 
Tlioy act or they recede, observe, and feel ; 
' Knowing the heart of man is set to be 
The center of this world, about the which 
These revolutions of disturbances 
Still roll ; where all the aspects of misery 
Predominate ; whose strong effects are such 
As he must bear, being powerless to redress ; 
And that, unless above himself he can 
Erect himself, how poor a thing is man ! ' 

" Happy is he' who lives to understand 
Not human nature only, but explores 
All natures, to the end that he may find 
The law that governs each, and where begins 
The union, the partition where, that makes 
Kind and degree among all visible beings ; 
The constitutions, powers, and faculties 
AVhich they inherit, can not step beyond. 
And can not fall beneath ; that do assign 
To every class its station and its office. 
Through all the mighty commonwealth of things, 
Up from the creeping plant to sovereign man. 
Such converse, if directed by a meek. 
Sincere, and humble spirit, teaches loA^e : 
For knowledge is delight, and such delight 
Breeds love ; yet, suited as it rather is 
To thought and to the climbing intellect, 
It teaches less to love than to adore. 
If that be not indeed the highest love." 



250 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THOUGHTS ON REVISITING THE WYE. 

Oh, how oft 
In darkness, and amid the many shapes 
or joyless daylight, when the fretful stir 
Unprofitable, and tlie fever of tlie Avorld, 
Have hung u23on the beatings of my lieart, — 
How oft in spirit have I turned to thee, 

sylvan Wye 1 thou wanderer tlirough the woods, — 
How often has my spirit turned to thee ! 

And now, with gleams of halt-extinguished thought, 

With many recognitions dim and faint, 

And somewhat of a sad perplexity. 

The picture of the mind revives again 

While here I stand, not only with the sense 

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts 

That in this moment there is life and food 

For future years. And so I dare to hope. 

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 

1 came among these hills ; when, like a roe, 
I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides 
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, 
Wherever Nature led, — more like a man 
Flying from something that he dreads than one 
Who sought the thing he loved. For Nature then — 
The coarser pleasures of my bo}'isli days 

And their glad animal movements all gone by — 
To me was all in all. I can not paint 
What then I Avas. The sounding cataract 
Haunted me like a passion ; the tall rock. 
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, 
Their colors and their forms, were then to me 
An appetite, — a feeling and a love 
That had no need of a remoter charm 
By thought supplied, or any interest 
Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past ; 
And all its aching joys are now no more, 
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this 
Faint I, nor mourn, nor murmur : other gifts 
Have followed, — for such loss, I would believe, 
Abundant recompense. For I have learned 
To look on Nature, not as in the hour 
Of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes 
The still sad music of humanity, 
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power 
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt 
A presence that disturbs me with the joy 
Of elevated thoughts, a sense sublime 
Of somethino; far more deeply interfused. 
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, 
And the round ocean, and the livinir air. 



ELIZABETH BAERETT BROWNING, 251 

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man ; 
A motion and a spirit tliat impels 
All thinking things, all objects of all thought, 
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still 
A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains, and of all that we behold 
From this green earth, — of all the mighty world 
Of eye and ear, both what they half create 
And what perceive ; well pleased to recognize 
In Nature, and the language of the sense, 
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, 
The guide, the guardian, of my heart, and soul 
Of all my moral being. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWISTHSTG. 

Died 1861. 

The most learned, and perhaps the most talented, of English female poets. Art, 
life, politics, and religion are treated by her with great vigor of thought, and sim- 
plicity of language. 

PRINCIPAL W^RITINGS. 

" Casa Guidi Windows," a political poem; "The Seraphim;" "A Drama of 
Exile;" "The Duchess May;" "Lady Geraldine's Courtship;" "Bertha in the 
Lane;" " The Cry of the Children; " " Cowper's Grave ;"" Prometheus Bound," 
translation from ^Eschylus; and "Aurora Leigh," her greatest work. 



MOTHER AND POET. 
1. 

Dead ! — one of them shot by the sea in the east. 
And one of them shot in the west by the sea. 

Dead ! — both my boys ! When you sit at the feast, 
And are wanting a great song for Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 



Yet I was a poetess only last year ; 

And good at my art, for a woman, men said. 
But this woman, this, who is agonized here, — 

The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head 
For ever instead. 

3. 

'\Yhat art can a woman be good at ? Oh, vain ! 

What art is she good at but hurting her breast 
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? 

Ah, boys, how you hurt ! You were strong as you pressed, 
And I proud by that test. 



252 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. 



• 4. 

What art's for a woman ? — To hold on her knees 

Both darlings ; to feel all their arms round her throat 

Cling, strangle a little ; to sew by degrees, 

And 'broider the long clothes and neat little coat ; 
To dream and to dote. 



To teach them. ... It stings there. I made them indeed 
Speak plain the Avord " country." I taught them, no doubt, 

That a country's a thing men should die for at need. 
I prated of liberty, rights, and about 
The tyrant turned out. 

6. 

And, when their eyes flashed, — oh my beautiful eyes ! — 
I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the wheels 

Of the guns, and denied not. But then the surprise 

When one sits quite alone ! then one weeps, then one kneels. 
God ! how the house feels ! 

7. 

At first, happy news came, in gay letters, moiled 
With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how 

They both loved me ; and soon, coming home to be spoiled, 
In retm'n Avould fan off every fly from my brow 
With their green laurel-bough. 

8. 

Then was triumph at Turin. " Ancona was free ! " 
And some one came out of the cheers in the street. 

With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. 
My Guido was dead ! I fell down at his feet 
While they cheered in the street. 

9. 

I bore it : friends soothed me. My grief looked sublime 

As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained 
To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time 

When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained 
To the hight he had gained. 

10. 

And letters still came, — shorter, sadder, more strong. 
Writ now but in one hand. " I was not to faint. 

One loved me for two ; . . . would be with me ere long : 
And ' Viva Ttnlia ' he died for, our saint, 
Who forbids our complaint." 



ELIZABETH BAERETT BR0W:NING. 253 



11. 

My Nanni would add, " He -was safe, and aware 

Of a presence that turned off the balls ; was imprest 

It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear ; 

And how 'twas impossible, quite dispossessed, 

To live on for the rest." 

12. 

On which, without pause, up the telegraph-line 

Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta, — " Shot ! " 

Tell his mother. Ah, ah ! " his," " their " mother, not " mine.'' 
No voice says " My mother " again to me. What ! 
You think Guido forgot ? 

13. 

Are souls straight so happy, that, dizzy with heaven, 
They drop earth's affection, concei\'e not of woe V 

I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven 
Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so 
The above and below. 

14. 

Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark 

To the face of thy mother ! consider, I pray. 
How Ave conmion mothers stand desolate ; mark 

Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, 
And no last word to say 1 

15. 

Both boys dead ! But that's out of nature. We all 

Have been patriots ; yet each house must always keep one : 

'Tvvere imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. 

And, when Italy's made, for what end is it done 
If we have not a son ? 

16. 

Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta's taken, what then ? 

When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport 
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men ; 

When your guns of Cavalli with final retort 
Have cut the game short ; 

17. 

When Yenice and Kome keep their new jubilee ; 

When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red ; 
When you have your country from mountain to sea ; 

AVhen King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, 
(And I have my dead,) — 



254 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 



18. 

What then ? Do not mock me. Ah ! ring your bells low, 
And burn your lights faintly. My country is there, 

Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow ; 
My Italy's there Avith my brave civic pair, 
To disfranchise despair. 

19. 

Forgive me ! Some women bear children in strength, 
And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn ; 

But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length 
Into wail such as this, and we sit on forlorn 
When the man-child is born. 

20. 

Dead ! — one of them shot by the sea in the west. 
And one of them shot in the east by the sea, — 

Both, both my boys ! If, in keeping the least. 
You want a great song for your Italy free, 
Let none look at me ! 



AURORA LEIGH. 

And I — I was a good child, on the whole, — 
A meek and manageable child. Why not ? 
I did not live to have the faults of life : 
There seemed more true life in my father's grave 
Than in all England. Since that threw me off 
Who fain would cleave (his latest will, they say. 
Consigned me to his land), I only thought 
Of lying quiet there where I was thrown 
Like seaweed on the rocks, and suffering her 
To prick me to a pattern with her pin. 
Fiber from fiber, delicate leaf from leaf. 
And dry out from my drowned anatomy 
The last sea-salt left in me. 

So it was. 
I broke the copious curls upon my head 
In braids, because she liked smooth-ordered hair. 
I left off saying my sweet Tuscan words, 
Which still, at any stirring of the heart, 
Came up to float across the English phrase. 
As lilies {Bene ... or die die), because 
She liked my father's child to speak his tongue. 
I learnt the collects and the catechism, 
The creeds, — from Athanasius back to Nice, — 
The articles, the tracts against the times, 
(By no means Buonaventure's " Prick of Love,") 



ELIZABETH BAERETT BEOWKING. 256 

And various popular synopses of 

Inhuman doctrines never taught by John, 

Because she Uked instructed piety. 

I learnt my complement of classic French 

(Kept pure of Balzac and neologism) 

And German also, since she liked a range 

Of liberal education, — tongues, not books. 

I learnt a little algebra, a little 

Of the mathematics, brushed with extreme flounce 

The circle of the sciences, because 

She misliked women who are frivolous. 

I learnt the royal genealogies 

Of Oviedo, the internal laws 

Of the Burmese Empire, by how many feet 

Mount Chimborazo outsoars Teneriife, 

What navigable river joins itself 

To Lara, and what census of the year five 

Was taken at Klagenfiirt, because she liked 

A general insight into useful facts. 

I learnt much music, — such as would have been 

As quite impossible in Johnson's day 

As still it might be wished, — fine sleights of hand 

And unimagined fingering, shuffling off 

The hearer's soul through hurricanes of notes 

To a noisy Tophet ; and I drew costumes 

From French engravings, Nereids neatly draped. 

With smirks of simmering godship ; I washed in 

Landscapes from Nature (rather say, washed out) ; 

I danced the polka and Cellarius ; 

Spun glass, stuffed birds, and modelled flowers in wax, — 

Because she liked accomplishments in girls. 

I read a score of books on womanhood. 

To prove, if women do not think at all. 

They may teach thinking (to a maiden aunt, 

Or else the autlior), — books that boldly assert 

Their right of comprehending husbands' talk 

When not too deep, and even of answering 

With pretty " May it please you," or " So it is ; " 

Their rapid insight and fine aptitude, 

Particular Avorth and general missionariness. 

As long as they keep quiet by the fire, 

And never say '' No " when the world says " Ay," 

For that is fatal ; their angelic reach 

Of virtue, chiefly used to sit and darn, 

And fatten household sinners ; their, in brief, 

Potential faculty in every thing 

Of abdicating power in it. She owned 

She liked a woman to be womanly ; 

And English women — she thanked God and sighed 

(Some people always sigh in thanking God) — 

Were models to the universe. And, last, 

I learnt cross-stitch, because she did not like 

To see me wear the night with empty hands, 



256 ENGLISH LITERATUBE. * 

Adoing nothing. So my shepherdess 

Was something after all, (the pastoral saints 

Be praised for't !) learning love-lorn with pink eyes 

To match her shoes, when I mistook the silks ; 

Her head uncrushed by that round weight of hat 

So strangely similar to the tortoise-shell 

Which slew the tragic poet. 

By the way, 
The works of women are symbolical. 
We sew, sew, prick our fingers, dull our sight, 
Producing what? A pair of slippers, sir, 
To put on when you're weary, or a stool 
To tumble over and vex you ; (" Curse that stool ! ") 
Or else, at best, a cushion, where you lean 
* And sleep, and dreain of something we are not, 
But would be for your sake. Alas, alas ! 
This hurts most, — this, — that, after all, we are paid 
The worth of our work, perhaps. 

In looking down 
Those years of education (to return), 
I Avonder if Brinvilliers suffered more 
In the water torture, flood succeeding flood 
To drench the incapable throat and split the veins, 
Than I did. Certain of your feebler souls 
Go out in such a process ; many pine 
To a sick, inodorous light : my own endured. 
I had relations in the unseen, and drew 
The elemental nutriment and heat 
From Nature, as earth feels the sun at nights, 
Or as a babe sucks surely in the dark : 
I kept the life thrust on me, on the outside 
Of the inner life with all its ample room 
For heart and lungs, for will and intellect. 
Inviolable by conventions. God, 
I thank thee for that grace of thine ! 

At first, 
I felt no life which was not patience ; did 
The thing she bade me, without heed to a thing 
Beyond it; sate in just the chair she placed. 
With back against the window to exclude 
The sight of the great lime-tree on the lawn. 
Which seemed to have come on purpose from the woods 
To bring the house a message ; ay, and walked 
Demurely in her carpeted low rooms 
As if I should not, hearkening my own steps. 
Misdoubt I was alive. I read her books ; 
Was civil to her cousin, Romney Leigh ; 
Gave ear to her vicar, tea to her visitors, 
And heard them whisper when I changed a cup 
(I blushed for joy at that), " The Italian child, 



ELIZABETH BAERETT BROWNING. 257 

For all her blue eyes and her quiet -ways, 

Thrives ill in England : she is paler yet 

Than when we came the last time : she will die." 

" Will die." My cousin, Romney Leigh, blushed too, 

With sudden anger, and, approaching me. 

Said low between his teeth, " You're wicked now ! 

You Avish to die, and leave the world a-dusk 

For others, with your naughty light blown out ? " 

I looked into his face deiyingly. 

He might have known, that, being what I was, 

'Twas natural to like to get away 

As far as dead folk can ; and then, indeed, 

Some people make no trouble when they die. 

He turned, and Avent abruptly, slammed the door, 

And shut his dog out. 

Romney, Romney Leigh : 
I have not named my cousin hitherto ; 
And yet I used him as a sort of friend, — 
My elder by few years, but cold and shy 
And absent ; tender when he thought of it, 
Which scarcely was imperative ; grave betimes, 
As well as early master of Leigh Hall, 
Whereof the nightmare sate upon his youth 
Repressing all its seasonable delights. 
And agonizing with a ghastly sense 
Of universal hideous want and wrong 
To incriminate possession. When he came 
From college to the country, very oft 
He crossed the hill on visits to my aunt, 
With gifts of blue grapes from the hothouses ; 
A book in one hand, — mere statistics (if 
I chanced to lift the cover), count of all 
The goats whose beards grow sprouting down towards hell, 
Against God's separative judgment-hour. 
And she — she ahnost loved him ; even allowed 
That sometimes he should seem to sigh my way : 
It made him easier to be pitiful ; 
And sighing was his gift. So, undisturbed. 
At whiles she let him shut my music up. 
And push my needles down, and lead me out 
To see in that south angle of the house 
The figs grow black as if by a Tuscan rock, 
On some light pretext. She would turn her head 
At other moments, go to fetch a thing, 
And leave me breath enough to speak with him. 
For his sake : it was simple. 

Sometimes, too. 
He would have saved me utterly, it seemed, 
He stood and looked so. 
17 



258 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Once lie stood so near. 
He dropped a sudden hand upon my head 
Bent down on woman's work, as soft as rain ; 
But then I rose and shook it off as fire, — 
The stranger's touch that took my father's place, 
Yet dared seem soft. 

I used him for a friend 
Before I ever knew him for a friend. 
'Twas better, 'twas worse also, afterward : 
We came so close, we saw our differences 
Too intimately. Always Romney Leigh 
Was looking for the worms, I for the gods. 
A godlike nature his : the gods look down 
Incurious of themselves ; and certainly 
'Tis well I should remember how, those days, 
I was a worm too, and he looked on me. 

A little by his act perhaps, yet more 

By something in me, surely not my will, 

I did not die. But slowly, as one in swoon, 

To whom life creeps back in the form of death, 

With a sense of separation, a blind pain 

Of blank obstruction, and a roar i' the ears 

Of visionary chariots which retreat 

As earth grows clearer, — slowly, by degrees, 

I woke, rose up. Where was I ? In the world : 

For uses, therefore, I must count worth while. 

I had a little chamber in the house. 

As green as any privet-hedge a bird 

Might choose to build in, though the nest itself 

Could show but dead brown sticks and straws. The walls 

Were green, the carpet was pure green, the straight 

Small bed was curtained greenly, and the folds 

Hung green about the window, which let in 

The out-door world with all its greener}^. 

You could not push your head out, and escape 

A dash of dawn-dew from the honeysuckle, 

But so you were baptized into the grace 

And privilege of seeing. . . . 

First the lime 
(I had enough there of the lime, be sure : 
My morning dream was often hummed away 
By the bees in it) ; past the lime, the lawn, 
Which, after sweeping broadly round the house, 
Went trickling through the shrubberies in a stream 
Of tender turf, and wore and lost itself 
Among the acacias, over which you saw 
The irregular line of elms by the deep lane 
Which stopped the grounds and dammed the overflow 
Of arbutus and laurel. Out of sight 
The lane was ; sunk so deep, no foreign tramp, 



ELIZABETH BAERETT BEOWNING. 259 

Nor drover of wild ponies out of Wales, 

Could guess if lady's hall or tenant's lodge 

Dispensed such odors, though his stick, well crooked, 

Might reach the lowest trail of blossoming brier 

Which dipped upon the wall. Behind the elms, 

And through their tops, you saw the folded hills 

Striped up and down with hedges (burly oaks 

Projecting from the line to show themselves), 

Through which my cousin Romney's chimneys smoked 

As still as when a silent mouth in frost 

Breathes, showing where the woodlands hid Leigh Hall ; 

While, far above, a jet of table-land, 

A promontory without water, stretched. 

You could not catch it if the days were thick. 

Or took it for a cloud ; but, otherwise. 

The vigorous sun would catch it up at eve, 

And use it for an anvil until he had filled 

The shelves of heaven with burning thunderbolts, 

Protesting against night and darkness ; then, 

AVhen all his setting trouble was resolved 

To a trance of passive glory, you might see 

In apparition on the golden sky 

(Alas ! my Giotto's background) the sheep run 

Along the fine clear outline, small as mice 

That run along a witch's scarlet thread. 

Not a grand nature. Not my chestnut-woods 
Of Vallombrosa, cleaving by the spurs 
To the precipices. Not my headlong leaps 
Of waters, that cry out for joy or fear 
In leaping through the palpitating pines. 
Like a white soul tossed out to eternity 
With thrills of time upon it. Not, indeed. 
My multitudinous mountains, setting in 
The magic circle, with the mutual touch 
Electric, panting from their full deep hearts 
Beneath the influent heavens, and waiting for 
Communion and commission. Italy 
Is one thing ; England one. 

On English ground, 
You understand the letter, — ere the Fall, 
How Adam lived in a garden. All the fields 
Are tied up fast with hedges, nosegay-like ; 
The hills are crumpled plains; the plains, parterres; 
The trees, round, woolly, ready to be clipped : 
And, if you seek for any wilderness. 
You find at best a park. A nature tamed 
And grown domestic like a barn-door fowl. 
Which does not awe you with its claws and beak. 
Nor tempt you to an eyrie too high up, 
But which in cackling sets you thinking of 
Your eggs to-morrow at breakfast in the pause 
Of finer meditation. 



260 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. 

Ratlier say, 
A sweet familiar nature, stealing in 
As a dog might, or child, to touch your hand, 
Or pluck your gown, and humbly mind you so 
Of presence and affection, excellent 
For inner uses, from the things without. 

I could not be unthankful, — I who was 

Entreated thus and liolpen. In the room 

I speak of, ere the house was well awake, 

And also after it was well asleep, 

I sat alone, and drew the blessing in 

Of all that nature. With a gradual step, 

A stir among the leaves, a breath, a ray, 

It came in softly, while the angels made 

A place for it beside me. The moon came, 

And swept my chamber clean of foolish thoughts. 

The sun came, saying, " Shall I lift this light 

Against the lime-tree, and you will not look ? 

I make the birds sing : listen ! But, for you, 

God never hears your voice, excepting when 

You lie upon the bed at nights, and weep." 

Then something moved me. Then I wakened up 

More slowly than I verily write now ; 

But wholly, at last, I wakened, opened wide 

Tlie window and my soul, and let the airs 

And outdoor sights sweep gradual gospels in, 

Regenerating what I was. O Life ! 

How oft we throw it off, and think, " Enough, 

Enough of Life in so much ! Here's a cause 

For rupture ; herein we must break with Life, 

Or be ourselves unworthy ; here we are wronged, 

Maimed, spoiled for aspiration : farewell Life ! " 

And so, as froward babes, we hide our eyes, 

And think all ended. Then Life calls to us 

In some transformed, apocalyptic voice 

Above us, or below us, or around : 

Perhaps we name it Nature's voice, or Love's, 

Tricking ourselves because we are more ashamed 

To own our compensations than our griefs : 

Still Life's voice ; still we make our peace with Life. 

And I, so young then, was not sullen. Soon 

I used to get up early, just to sit 

And watch the morning quicken in the gray, 

And hear the silence open like a flower, 

Leaf after leaf, and stroke with listless hand 

The woodbine through the window, till at last 

I came to do it with a sort of love. 

At foolish unaware : whereat I smiled, — 

A melancholy smile, to catch myself 

Smiling for joy. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 261 

Capacity for joy 
Admits temptation. It seemed, next, worth while 
To dodge the sharp sword set against my life ; 
To slip down stairs through all the sleepy house, 
As mute as any dream there, and esca]3e, 
As a soul froui the body, out of doors, 
Glide through the shrubberies, drop into ^he lane, 
And wander on the hills an hour or two, 
Then back again before the house should stir. 
Or else I sat on in my chamber green, 
And lived my life, and thought my thoughts, and prayed 
My prayers without tlie vicar ; read my books. 
Without considering whether they were fit 
To do me good. Mark, there ! We get no good 
By being ungenerous, even to a book, 
And calculating profits ; ... so much help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves, and pkmge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's prolbund. 
Impassioned for its beauty, and salt of truth, — 
'Tis then we g:et the rio-ht good from a book. 

I read much. What my father taught before 

From many a volume, Love re-emphasized 

Upon the selfsame pages : Theophrast 

Grew tender with the memory of his eyes ; 

And iElian made mine wet. The trick of Greek 

And Latin he had taught me as he would 

Have taught me wrestling, or the game of fives. 

If such he had known, — most like a shipwrecked man 

Who heaps his single platter with goats' cheese 

And scarlet berries ; or like any man 

Who loves but one, and so gives all at once, 

Because he has it, rather than because 

He counts it worthy. Thus my father gave ; 

And thus, as did the women formerly 

By young Achilles Avhen they pinned the vail 

Across the boy's audacious front, and swept 

With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks. 

He wrapt his little daughter in his large 

Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no. 

But, after I had read for memory, 
I read for hope. The path my father's foot 
Had trod me out, which suddenly broke off 
(What time he dropped the wallet of the flesh. 
And passed), alone I carried on, and set 
My child-heart 'gainst the thorny underwood. 
To reach the grassy shelter of the trees. 
Ah, babe i' the wood, without a brother-babe ! 
My own self-pity, like the red-breast bird. 
Flies back to cover all that past with leaves. 



262 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Sublimest danger, over which, none weeps 
When any young wayfaring soul goes tbrth 
Alone, unconscious of the perilous road, 
The day-sun dazzling in his limpid eyes, 
To thrust his own way, he an alien, through 
The world of books ! Ah, you ! — you think it fine, 
You clap hands, — " A fair day ! " — you cheer him on, 
As if the worst could happen were to rest 
Too long beside a fountain. Yet, behold. 
Behold ! the world of books is still the world ; 
And worldlings in it are less merciful 
And more puissant. For the wicked there 
Are winged like angels. Every knife that strikes 
Is edged from elemental fire to assail 
A spiritual life. The beautiful seems right 
By force of beauty, and the feeble wrong 
Because of weakness. Power is justified, 
Though armed against St. Michael. Many a crown 
Covers bald foreheads. In the book- world, true, 
There's no lack, neither, of God's saints and kings, 
That shake the ashes of the grave aside 
From their calm locks, and, undiscomfited, 
Look steadfast truths against Time's changing mask. 
True, many a prophet teaches in the roads ; 
True, many a seer pulls down the flaming heavens 
Upon his own head in strong martyrdom, 
In order to light men a moment's space. 
But stay 1 — who judges, who distinguishes, 
'Twixt Saul and Nahash justly, at first sight, 
And leaves King Saul precisely at the sin. 
To serve King David ? Who discerns at once 
The sound of the trumpets when the trumpets blow 
For Alaric as well as Charlemagne ? 
Who judges wizards, and can tell true seers 
From conjurors ? The child there? Would you leave 
That child to wander in a battle-field, 
• And push his innocent smile against the guns ? 
Or even in a catacomb, his torch 
Grown ragged in the fluttering air, and all 
The dark a-mutter round him ? Not a child. 

I read books bad and good, — some bad and some good 

At once (good aims not always make good books ; 

Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils 

In digging vineyards even) ; books that prove 

God's being so definitely, that man's doubt 

Grows self-defined the other side the Ime, 

Made atheist by suggestion ; moral books, 

Exasperating to license ; genial books, 

Discounting from the human dignity ; 

And merry books, which set you weeping when 

The sun shines ; ay, and melancholy books, 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWKING. 263 

Whicli make you laugla that any one should weep 
In this disjointed hie for one wrong more. 

The world of books is still the world I write ; 
And both worlds have God's providence, thank God I 
To keep and hearten. With some struggle, indeed, 
Among the breakers, some hard swimming through 
The deeps, I lost breath in my soal sometimes, 
And cried, " God save me, if there's any God ! " 
But, even so, God saved me; and, being dashed 
From error on to error, every turn 
Still brought me nearer to the central truth. 

I thought so. All this anguish in the thick 
Of men's opinions, — press and counterpress, 
Now up, now down, now underfoot, and now 
Emergent, — all the best of it, perhaps. 
But throws you back upon a noble trust 
And use of your own instinct ; merely proves 
Pure reason stronger than bare inference 
At strongest. Try it ; fix against heaven's wall 
Your scaling ladders of school logic ; mount 
Step by step. Sight goes faster : that still ray 
Which strikes out from you, how you can not tell, 
And why you know not, (did you eliminate, 
That such as you, indeed, should analyze ?) 
Goes straight and fast as light, and high as God. 

The cygnet finds the water ; but the man 
Is born in ignorance of his element. 
And feels out blind at first, disorganized 
By sin i' the blood, his spirit-insight dulled 
And crossed by his sensations. Presently 
He feels it quicken in the dark sometimes ; 
When mark, be reverent, be obedient ; 
For such dumb motions of imperfect life 
Are oracles of vital Deity, 
Attesting the hereafter. Let who says, 
" The soul's a clean white paper,'' rather say, 
A palimpsest, a prophet's holograph 
Defiled, erased, and covered by a monk's, — 
The apocalypse, by a Longus ! poring on 
Which obscene text, we may discern perhaps 
Some fair, fine trace of what was written once ; 
Some upstroke of an alpha and omega 
Expressing the old Scripture. 

Books, books, books ! 
I had found the secret of a garret-room 
Piled high with cases in my father's name ; 
Piled high, packed large, where, creeping in and out 
Among the giant fossils of my past, 



264 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Like some small, nimble mouse between tbe ribs 
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there 
At this or that box, pulling through the gap, 
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy. 
The first book first. And how I felt it beat 
Under my pillow in the morning's dark, 
An hour before the sun would let me read ! 
My books ! 

At last, because the time was ripe, 
I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 
Plunges in fury when the internal fires 
Have reached and pricked her heart, and throwing flat 
The marts and temples, the triumphal gates, 
And towers of observation, clears herself 
To elemental freedom ; thus my soul, 
At Poetry's divine first finger-touch, 
Let go conventions, and sprang up surjDrised, 
Convicted of the great eternities 
Before two worlds. 



OTHEB MODERN ENGLISH POETS AND 
DRAMATISTS. 

Robert Southey. — 17T4-1843. Poet-laureate from 1813 to 1843. A writer 
of great industry. His prose is superior to his poetry, which is of the lake 
school mainly, and not of the highest order. 

PRINCIPAL PRODUCTIONS. 

"Madoc;" "The Curse of Keharaa;" " Thalaba, the Destroyer;" "Joan of 
Arc;" "All for Love;" "The Pilgrim of Compostella;" "Life of Nelson;" "A 
History of Brazil;" "Lives of Wesley, Chatterton, White, and Cowper; " "Lives 
of the'Britisli Admirals; " " Colloquies on Society." 

Sheridan Knowles. — 1784-1862. One of the most successful of modern 
dramatists. His best known plays are " Caius Gracchus," " Virginius, " 
"William Tell," "The Beggar of Bethnal Green," "The Hunchback," "The 
Wife, a Tale of Mantua," and "Love." Besides these, he wrote several other pop- 
ular plays and other works. 

William E. Aytoun. — 1813, Edinburgh. " Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers; " 
"Bothwell;" "Firmilian;" and, with Theodore Martin, "Ballads by Bon Gaultier." 

Philip James Bailey. — 1816. Author of " Festus," a Avork of remarkable 
power, "The Angel World," "The ]\Iystic," "The Age, a Colloquial Satire." 

Caroline Anne Southey. —1787-1854. Authoress of the benutiful tales, " The 
Young Grav Head," "The Murder Glen," "Walter and William," and " The Even- 
ing Walk;" also " Ellen Fitzarthur," "Birthday and other Poems," "Solitary 
Hours," and other pieces of prose and poetry of much merit. 

Martin Farquhar Tupper. — 1810. " Proverbial Philosophy; " " An Author's 
Mind: " " The Crock of Gold." 



OTHER MODERN ENGLISH POETS, ETC. 265 

Eliza Cook. — 1817. "The Old Arm -Chair," and many other popular 
pieces. 

Miss Jean Ingelow. — " The High Tide." 

William Thom. — 1789-1848. *' Rhymes and Recollections." 

Bryan Walter Procter (better known as "Barry Cornwall"). — 1790. 
"Marcian Colonaa; " "Flood of Thessaly; " " Dramatic Scenes; " '• Mu-audola; " 
"The Sea;" " The Sequestration of a Bereaved Lover; " "A Pauper's Funeral;" 
" A Petition to Time; " " A Prayer in Sickness; " " The Stormy Petrel." 

Henry Hart Milman. — 1791-1868. "Fazio;" "Samor;" " The Fall of Jeru- 
salem; " " The Martyr of Autioch; " " History of Latin Christianity." 

John Clare. — 1793. " Poems of Rural Life; " " The Village Minstrel." 

Hartley Coleridge. — 1796-1849. "Lives of Northern Worthies;" "The 
First Sound to the Human Ear; " " Night; " "A Vision; " " Sunday; " " Prayer." 

Derwent Coleridge. — 1800. " Memoir of Hartley Coleridge." 

Sara Coleridge. — 1803-1852. " Phantasmion." 

Thomas Haynes Bayley. — 1797-1839. "The Soldier's Tear;"' "I'd be a 
Butterfly ; " '• The First Gray Hair; " " I Never was a Favorite; " " Why don't the 
Men propose? " 

William Motherwell. — 1797-1835. "Scottish Minstrelsy;" "Jeanie Mor- 
rison." 

Alaric Alexander Watts. — 1799. "Poetical Sketches;" "Lyrics of the 
Heart;" "Death of tlie Firstborn;" "To a Child blowing Bubbles;" "My Own 
Fireside;" "The Gray Hair." 

John Edmund Reade. — "Italy;" "Revelations of Life;" "Cain and 
Catiline." 

Winthrop Mackworth Praed.— 1802-1839. "The Red Fisherman;'' 
" Quince." 

Richard Henry Horne. — 1803. "Orion;" "Cosmo de Medici;" "Death of 
Marlowe." 

Charles Swain. — 1803. "The Mind;" "English Melodies;" "Letters of 
Laura D'Auverne." 

Thomas Kibble Hervey. — 1804-1859. Editor of "The Athenseum;" "Aus- 
tralia;" "Modern Sculpture;" " England's Helicon." 

Thomas Ragg. — 1808. " The Deity: " " Martyr of Vemlum ; " " Heber." 

Richard Monckton Milnes. — 1809. "Poems of Many Years;" "Palm- 
Leaves;" "Life of Keats;" "Youth and Manhood;" "Labor;" "Rich and 
Poor." 

Charles Mackay. — 1812. "Voices from the Crowd;" "Town Lyrics;" 
"vEgeriii;" "The Salamandrine; " "The Watcher on the Tower;" "The Good 
Time Coming; " " The Three Preachei*s; " "What might be Done." 
Robert Nicoll. — 1814-1837. " Thoughts of Heaven ; " " Death." 
Frances Brown. — 1816. " The Star of Atteghei; " " Vision of Schwartz;" 
" Lyrics." 

Matthew Arnold. — 1822. "The Strayed Reveler;" "Empedocles on 

Coventry Patmore. — 1823. " Tamerton Church -Tower ; " " The Angel in the 
House." 

George Macdonald. — 1826. " Within and Without; " " Phantastes." 

Gerald Massey. — 1828. " Babe Christabel ; " " Craigcrook Castle." 

William Bennett 



Denis Florence M'Carthy. 
William Allingham. 
IsA Craig. 
Bessie Parkes. 
Mary Hume. 
Adelaide Procter. 



All of whom have written in a 
style more or less worthy of 
the pupil's attention. 



266 ENGLISH LITEKATURE. 



DRAMATISTS. 



Sir Thomas Noon Talfoukd. —1795-1854. "Ion;" "The Athenian Cap- 
tive;" " Gieacoe, or the Fate of the Macdonalds ; " "The Castilian ; " " Life of 
Charles Lamb." 

Henry Taylor. — " Philip Van Artevelde; " " Edwin the Fair; " " The Eve of 
the Conquest; " " Notes from Life, and Notes from Books." 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. — 1803-1849. "The Bride's Tragedy." 

EiCHARD Lalor Sheil. — Died 1851. "Evadne; " "The Apostate." 

Gilbert Abbott a Beckett. — 1810-1856. Many plays; also "Comic Black- 
stone; " " Comic Histories of England and Eome." 

Tom Taylor. — 1817. Many comedies and farces; " Contributions to Punch;" 
"Memorials of Haydon." 

Westland Marston. — 1825. " Heart of the "World ; '' " Patrician's Daughter." 

EoBERT B. Brough. — 1828. " What to Eat, Drink, and Avoid; " " Medea." 

Shirley Brooks. — " Our Governess ; " " The Creole." 

WiLKiE Collins. — " The Frozen Deep." 

Mark Lemon. — Late editor of "Punch." Author of innumerable farces, &c. 

Henry Mayhew. — " The V/andering Minstrel." 



^ JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 

Born 1814, Dorchester, Mass. 

This distinguished historian, author of " The Rise of the Dutch Eepublic," and 
'The United Netherlands," is now (1870) minister at the court of St. James. 



WILLIAM OF ORANGE. 

The life and labors of Orange had established the emancipated 
commonwealth upon a secure foundation ; but his death rendered 
the union of all the ISTetherlands into one republic hopeless. 

The efforts of the malcontent nobles, the religious discord, the 
consummate ability (both political and military) of Parma, — all 
combined with the lamentable loss of William the Silent to sepa- 
rate for ever the southern and Catholic provinces from the north- 
ern confederacy. So long as the prince remained alive, he was 
the father of the whole conntry ; the Netherlands, saving only the 
two Walloon provinces, constituting a whole. 

Notwithstanding the spirit of faction and the blight of the long 
civil war, there was at least one country, or the hope of a country, — 
one strong heart, one guiding head, — for the patriotic party 
throughout the land. Philip and Granvelle were right in their es- 
timate of the advantage to be derived from the prince's death ; in 



JOHX LOTHKOP MOTLEY. 267 

believirxg that an assassin's hand could achieve more than all the 
wiles which Spanish or Italian statesmansliip could teach, or all 
the armies which Spain or Italy could muster. The pistol of the 
insignificant Gerard destroyed the possibility of a united Nether- 
land State ; while, during the life of William, there was union in 
tlie policy, unity in the history, of the country. 

In the following year, Antwerp, hitherto the center around 
which all the national interests and historical events group tli em- 
selves, fell before the scientific eftbrts of Parma. The city which 
had so long been the freest as well as the most opulent capital in 
Europe sank for ever to the position of a provincial town. With 
its fall, combined with other circumstances which it is not neces- 
sary^ to narrate in anticipation, the final separation of the ISTether- 
lands was completed. On the other hand, at the death of Orange, 
whose formal inauguration as sovereign count had not 3'et taken 
place, the States of Holland and Zealand re-assumed the sover- 
eignty. The commonwealth which William had liberated for 
ever from Spanish tyranny continued to exist as a great and flour- 
ishing republic during more than two centuries, under the succes- 
sive stadtholderates of his sons and descendants. 

His life gave existence to an independent country ; his death 
defined its limits. Had he lived twenty years longer, it is proba- 
ble that the seven provinces would have been seventeen, and that 
the Spanish title would have been for ever extinguished both in 
Nether German}^ and Celtic Gaul. Although there was to be the 
length of two human generations more of warfare ere Spain ac- 
knowledged the new government, yet, before the termination of that 
period, the United States had become the first naval power, and one 
of the most considerable commonwealths, in the world ; while the 
civil and religious liberty, the political independence, of the land, 
together with the total expulsion of the ancient foreign tyranny 
from the soil, had been achieved ere the ej^es of William were closed. 

The republic existed, in fact, from the moment of the abju- 
ration, in 1581. 

The most important features of the polity wdiich thus assumed 
a prominent organization have been already indicated. There 
was no revolution, no radical change. The ancient rugged tree of 
Netherland liberty, — with its moss-grown trunk, gnarled branches, 
and deep-reaching roots, — which had been slowly growing for 
ages, was still full of sap, and was to deposit for centuries longer 
its annual rings of consolidated and concentric strength. Though 
lopped of some luxuriant boughs, it was sound at the core, and 
destined for a still larger life than even in the healthiest moments 
of its mediaeval existence. 

The histor}'- of the rise of the Netherland Eepublic has been 
at the same time the biography of William the Silent. This, 



268 ENGLISH LITERATUBE. 

while it gives unity to the narrative, renders an elaborate descrip- 
tion of his character superfluous. That life was a noble Chris- 
tian epic, inspired with one great purpose from its commence- 
ment to its close, — the stream flowing ever from one fountain with 
expanding fullness, but retaining all its original purity. A few 
general observations are all which are necessary by way of con- 
clusion. 

In person. Orange was above the middle hight, perfectly well 
made and sinewy, but rather spare than stout. His eyes, hair, 
beard, and complexion were brown. His head was small, sym- 
metrically shaped, combining the alertness and compactness char- 
acteristic of the soldier with the capacious brow furrowed prema- 
turely with the horizontal lines of thought denoting the states- 
man and the sage. His physical appearance was, therefore, in 
harmony with his organization, which was of antique model. Of 
his moral qualities, the most prominent was his piety. He was, 
more than anj'- thing else, a religious man. From his trust in God 
he ever derived support and consolation in the darkest hours. Im- 
plicitly relying upon Almighty Wisdom and Goodness, he looked 
danger in the face with a constant smile, and endured incessant 
labors and trials with a serenity which seemed more than human. 
While, however, his soul was fall of piety, it was tolerant of error. 
Sincerely and deliberately himself a convert to the Keformed 
Church, he was ready to extend freedom of worship to Catholics 
on one hand, and to Anabaptists on the other ; for no man ever 
felt more keenly than he that the reformer who becomes in his 
turn a bigot is doubly odious. His firmness was allied to his 
piety. His constancy in bearing the whole weight of a struggle as 
unequal as men have ever undertaken was the theme of admira- 
tion even to his enemies. The rock in the ocean, "tranquil amid 
raging billows," was the favorite emblem by which his friends ex- 
pressed their sense of his firmness. From the time when, as a 
hostage in France, he first discovered the plan of Philip to plant 
the Inquisition in the Netherlands, up to the last moment of his 
life, he never faltered in his determination to resist that iniqui- 
tous scheme. This resistance was the labor of his life. To 
exclude the Inquisition, to maintain the ancient liberties of his 
country, was the task which he appointed to himself when a youth 
of three and twenty. 

Never speaking a word concerning a heavenly mission, never 
deluding himself or others with the usual phraseology of enthu- 
siasts, he accomplished the task through danger, amid toils, and 
with sacrifices such as few men have ever been able to make on 
their country's altar ; for the disinterested benevolence of the 
man was as prominent as his fortitude. 

A prince of high rank and with royal revenues, he stripped 



JOHN LOTIIROP MOTLEY. 269 

himself of station, wealth, almost, at times, of the common neces- 
saries of life, and became, in his country's cause, nearly a beggar 
as well as an outlaw. Nor was he forced into his career by an ac- 
cidental impulse from which there was no recovery. Ketreat was 
ever open to him. jSTot only pardon, but advancement, was urged 
upon him again and again. Officially and privately, directly and 
circuitously, his confiscated estates, together with indefinite and 
boundless favors in addition, were offered to him on every great 
occasion. On the arrival of Don John, at the Breda negotiations, 
at the Cologne conferences, we have seen how calmly these offers 
were waived aside, as if their rejection was so simple, that it hard- 
ly required many words for its signification ; yet he had mortgaged 
his estates so deepl}^, that his heirs hesitated at accepting their 
inheritance, for fear it should involve them in debt. Ten j^ears 
after his death, the account between his executors and his brother 
John amounted to one million four hundred thousand florins due 
to the count, secured by various pledges of real and personal prop- 
erty ; and it was finally settled upon this basis. He was, besides, 
largety indebted to every one of his powerful relatives : so that the 
payment of the encumbrances upon his estate very nearl}^ justified 
the fears of his children. While on the one hand, therefore, he 
poured out these enormous sums like water, and firmly refused a 
hearing to the tempting offers of the royal government, upon the 
other hand he proved the disinterested nature of his services by 
declining, jeav after year, the sovereignty over the provinces, and 
by only accepting in the last days of his life, when refusal had 
become almost impossible, the limited constitutional supremacy 
over that portion of them which now makes the realm of his de- 
scendants. He lived and died, not for himself, but for his country. 
" God pity this poor people ! " were his dying words. 

His intellectual faculties were various, and of the highest order. 
He had the exact, practical, and combining qualities which make 
the great commander; and his friends claimed, that, in military 
genius, he was second to no captain in Europe. This was, no 
doubt, an exaggeration of partial attachment ; but it is certain 
that the Emperor Charles had an exalted opinion of his capacity 
for the field. His fortification of Philippeville and Charlemont, 
in the face of the enemy; his passage of the Meuse in Alva's 
sight ; his unfortunate but well-ordered campaign against that 
general ; his sublime plan of relief, projected and successfully 
directed at last from his sick-bed, for the besieged city of Leyden, 
— will always remain monuments of his practical militar}^ skill. 

Of the soldier's great virtues, — constancy in disaster, devotion 
to duty, hopefulness in defeat, — no man ever possessed a larger 
share. He arrived, through a series of reverses, at a perfect vic- 
tory. He planted a free commonwealth under the very battery 



270 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of the Inquisition, in defiance of the most powerful empire exist- 
ing. He was therefore a conqueror in the loftiest sense ; for he 
conquered liberty and a national existence for a whole people. 
The contest was long, and he fell in the struggle ; but the victory 
was to the dead hero, not to the living monarch. It is to be 
remembered, too, that he always wrought with inferior instru- 
ments. His troops were usually mercenaries, who were but too 
apt to mutiny upon the eve of battle ; while he was opposed by 
the most formidable veterans of Europe, commanded successively 
by the first captains of the age. That with no lieutenant of emi- 
nent valor or experience save only his brother Louis, and with 
none at all after that chieftain's death, William of Orange should 
succeed in baffling the efforts of Alva, Requesens, Don John of 
Austria, and Alexander Farnese, — men whose names are among 
the most brilliant in the military annals of the world, — is in 
itself sufficient evidence of his warlike ability. At the period of 
his death, be had reduced the number of obedient provinces to 
two; only Artois and Hainault acknowledging Philip, while the 
other fifteen were in open revolt, the greater part having sol- 
emnly forsworn their sovereign. 

The supremacy of his political genius was entirel^^ beyond ques- 
tion. He was the first statesman of the age. The quickness of 
his perception was only equaled by the caution which enabled 
him to mature the results of his observations. His knowledge of 
human nature was profound. He governed the passions and sen- 
timents of a great nation as if they had been but the keys and 
chords of one vast instrument; and his hand rarelj' failed to evoke 
harmony even out of the wildest storms. The turbulent city of 
Ghent, which could obey no other master, which even the haughty 
emperor could only crush without controlling, was ever responsive 
to the master-hand of Orange. His presence scared away Imbize 
and his bat-like crew, confounded the schemes of John Casimir, 
frustrated the wiles of Prince Chimay ; and, while he lived, Ghent 
was what it ought always to have remained, — the bulwark, as it 
had been the cradle, of popular liberty. After his death, it became 
its tomb. Ghent, saved thrice by the policy, the eloquence, the 
self-sacrifices, of Orange, fell, within three months of his murder, 
into the hands of Parma. The loss of this most important city, 
followed in the next year by the downfall of Antwerp, sealed the 
fate of the Southern Netherlands. Had the Prince lived, how dif- 
ferent miglit have been the country's fate ! If seven provinces could 
dilate in so brief a space into the powerful commonwealth which 
the republic soon became, what might not have been achieved 
by the united seventeen ? — a confederacy which w^ould have 
united the adamantine vigor of the Batavian and Frisian races with 
the subtler, more delicate, and more graceful national elements, in 



JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY. 271 

wliicli the genius of the Frank, the E,onian, and the Romanized 
Celt, were so intimately blended. As long as the father of the 
country lived, such a union was possible. His power of managing 
men was so unquestionable, tliat there w^as always a hope, even in 
the darkest hour; for men felt implicit reliance, as well on his 
intellectual resources as on his integrity. This power of dealing 
with his fellow-men he manifested in the various ways in which it 
lias been usually exhibited by statesmen. He possessed a ready 
eloquence ; sometimes impassioned, oftener argumentative, alwaj^s 
rational. His influence over his audience was unexampled in the 
annals of that country or age ; yet he never condescended to flat- 
ter the people. He never followed the nation, but always led her 
in the path of duty and of honor ; and was much more prone to 
rebuke the vices than to pander to the passions of his hearers. 
He never failed to administer ample chastisement to parsimony, 
to jealousy, to insubordination, to intolerance, to infidelity, wher- 
ever it was due ; nor feared to confront the states or the people in 
their most angry hours, and to tell them the truth to their faces. 
This commanding position he alone could stand upon: for his 
countrymen knew the generosity which had sacrificed his all for 
them; the self-denial which had eluded rather than sought politi- 
cal advancement, whether from king or people; and the untiring 
devotion whicli had consecrated a wliole life to toil and danger in 
the cause of their emancipation. While, therefore, he was ever 
ready to rebuke, and always too honest to flatter, he at the same 
time possessed the eloquence which could convince or persuade. 
He knew how to reach both the mind and the heart of his hear- 
ers. His orations, whether extemporaneous or prepared; his 
written messages to the states-general, to the provincial authori- 
ties, to the municipal bodies ; his private correspondence with 
men of all ranks, from emperors and kings down to secretaries, 
and even children, — all show an easy flow of language, a fullness 
of thouglit, a power of expression rare in that age, a fund of histor- 
ical allusion, a considerable power of imagination, a warmth of 
sentiment, a breadth of view, a directness of purpose ; a range of 
qualities, in sliort, which would in themselves have stamped him 
as one of the master-minds of his century, had there been no 
other monument to his memory than the remains of his spoken 
or written eloquence. The bulk of his performances in this de- 
partment was prodigious. Not even Philip was more industrious 
in the cabinet. jSTot even Granvelle held a more facile pen. " He 
wrote and spoke equally well in Frencli, German, or Flemish ; 
and he possessed, besides, Spanish, Italian, Latin. The weight 
of his correspondence alone would have almost sufficed for the 
common industry of a lifetime ; and, although many volumes of 
his speeches and letters have been published, there remain in the 



272 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

rarioiis archives of the Netherlands and Germany many docu- 
ments from his hand which will probably never see the light. If 
the capacity for unremitted intellectual labor in an honorable 
cause be the measure of human greatness, few minds could be 
compared to the "large composition" of this man. The efforts 
made to destroy the Netherlands by the most laborious and pains- 
taking of tyrants were counteracted by the industry of the most 
indefatigable of patriots. 

Thus his eloquence, oral or written, gave him almost boundless 
power over his countrymen. He possessed, also, a rare perception 
of human character, together with an iron memorj^, which never 
lost a face, a place, or an event, once seen or known. He read 
the minds, even the faces, of men, like printed books. No man 
could overreach him, excepting only those to whom he gave his 
heart. He might be mistaken where he had confided, never 
where he had been distrustful or indifferent. He was deceived 
by Renneberg, by his brother-in-law Van den Berg, by the Duke 
of Anjou. Had it been possible for his brother Louis or his 
brother John to have proved false, he might have been deceived 
by them. He was never outwitted by Philip or Gran veil e or 
Don John or Alexander of Parma. Anna of Saxony was false to 
him, and entered into correspondence w^ith the royal governors 
and with the King of Spain : Charlotte of Bourbon, or Louisa de 
Coligny, might have done the same, had it been possible for their 
natures also to descend to such depths of guile. 

As for the Aerschots, the Havres, the Chimays, he was never 
influenced either by their blandishments or their plots. He was 
willing to use them when their interests made them friendly, or 
to crush them when their intrigues against his policy rendered 
them dangerous. The adroitness with which he converted their 
schemes in behalf of Matthias, of Don John, of Anjou, into so 
many additional weapons for his own cause, can never be too often 
studied. It is instructive to observe the wiles of the Machiavel- 
ian school employed by a master of the craft, to frustrate, not to 
advance, a knavish purpose. This character, in a great measure, 
marked his whole policy. He was profoundly skilled in the 
subtleties of Italian statesmanship, Avhich he had learned as a 
youth at the imperial court, and which he employed in his man- 
hood in the service, not of tyranny, but of libert}^ He fought 
the Inquisition with its own weapons. He dealt with Philip on 
his own ground. He excavated the earth beneath the king's 
feet by a more subtle process than that practiced by the most 
fraudulent monarch that ever governed the Spanish Empire ; and 
Philip, chain-mailed as he was in complicated wiles, was pierced 
to the quick by a keener policy than his own. 

Ten years long, the king placed daily his most secret letters in 



JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY." 273 

hands which regularly transmitted copies of the correspondence 
to the Prince of Orange, together with a key to the ciphers, and 
every other illustration which might be required. Thus the 
secrets of the king were always as well known to Orange as to 
himself; and, the prince being as prompt as Philip was hesitating, 
the schemes could often be frustrated before their execution had 
been commenced. The crime of the unfortunate clerk, John de 
Castillo, was discovered in the autumn of the year 1581 ; and he 
was torn to pieces by four horses. Perhaps his treason to the 
monarch whose bread he was eating, while he received a regular 
salary from the king's most determined foe, deserved even this 
horrible punishment ; but casuists must determine how much 
guilt attaches to the prince for his share in the transaction. 
This history is not the eulogy of Orange ; although, in discussing 
his character, it is difficult to avoid the monotony of panegyric. 
Judged by a severe moral standard, it can not be called virtuous 
or honorable to suborn treachery or any other crime, even to 
accomplish a lofty purpose : yet the universal practice of mankind 
in all ages has tolerated the artifices of war; and no people has 
ever engaged in a holier or more mortal contest than did the 
Netherlands in their great struggle with Spain. Orange pos- 
sessed the rare quality of caution, — a characteristic by which he 
was distinguished from his youth. At fifteen he was the confi- 
dential counselor, as at twenty-one he became the general-in-chief, 
to the most politic as well as the most warlike potentate of his 
age ; and if he at times indulged in wiles which modern states- 
manship, even while it practices, condemns, he ever held in his 
hand the clew of an honorable purpose to guide him through the 
tortuous labyrinth. 

It is difficult to find any other characteristic deserving of grave 
censure ; but his enemies have adopted a simpler process. They 
have been able to find a few flaws in his nature, and therefore have 
denounced it in gross. It is not that his character was here and 
there defective, but that the eternal jeAvel was false ; the patri- 
otism was counterfeit ; the self-abnegation and the generosity were 
counterfeit; he was governed only by ambition, by a desire of 
personal advancement. They never attempted to deny his tal- 
ents, his industry, his vast sacrifices of wealth and station ; but 
they ridiculed the idea that he could have been inspired by any 
but unworthy motives. God alone knows the heart of man. He 
alone can unweave the tangled skein of human motives, and de- 
tect the hidden springs of human action ; but as far as can be 
judged by a careful observation of undisputed facts, and by a dili- 
gent collation of public and private documents, it would seem that 
no man — not even AVashington — has ever been inspired by a 
purer patriotism. At any rate, the charge of ambition and self- 
is 



274 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

seeking can only be answered by a reference to the whole picture 
which these volumes have attempted to portray. The words, the 
deeds, of the man, are there. As much as possible, his inmost soul 
is revealed in his confidential letters ; and he who looks in a right 
spirit will hardly fail to find what he desires. 

Whether originally of a timid temperament or not, he was cer- 
tainly possessed of perfect courage at last. In siege and battle, 
in the deadly air of pestilential cities, in the long exhaustion of 
mind and body which comes from unduly protracted labor and 
anxiet}^, amid the countless conspiracies of assassins, he was daily 
exposed to death in every shape. Within two years, five differ- 
ent attempts against his life had been discovered. Rank and 
fortune were offered to any malefactor who would compass the 
murder. He had already been shot through the head, and almost 
mortally wounded. Under such circumstances, even a brave man 
might have seen a pitfall at every step, a dagger in every hand, 
and poison in every cup. On the contrary, he was ever cheerful, 
and hardly took more precaution than usual. "God, in his 
mercy," said he with unaffected simplicity, "will maintain my 
innocence and my honor during my life, and in future ages. As 
to my fortune and any life, I have dedicated both, long since, to 
his service. He will do therewith what pleases him for his glory 
and my salvation." Thus his suspicions were not even excited 
by the ominous face of Grerard when he first presented himself at 
the dining-room door. The prince laughed off his wife's pro- 
phetic apprehension at the sight of his murderer, and was as 
cheerful as usual to the last. 

He possessed, too, that which to the heathen philosopher seemed 
the greatest good, — the sound mind in the sound body. His 
physical frame was after death found so perfect, that a long life 
might have been in store for him, notwithstanding all which he 
had endured. The desperate illness of 1574, the frightful gun- 
shot wound inflicted by Jaureguy in 1582, had left no traces. 
The ph^^sicians pronounced that his body presented an aspect of 
perfect health. His temperament was cheerful. At table, the 
pleasures of which, in moderation, were his only relaxation, he 
was always animated and merry; and this jocoseness was parti}'- 
natural, partly intentional. In the darkest hours of his country's 
trial, he affected a serenity which he was far from feeling; so that 
his apparent gayety at momentous epochs was even censured by 
dullards, who could not comprehend its philosophy, nor applaud 
the flippancy of William the Silent. 

He went through life bearing the load of a people's sorrows 
upon his shoulders with a smiling face. Their name was the last 
word upon his lips, save the simple affirmative witli which the 
soldier, who had been battling for the right all his lifetime, com- 



CHARLES SUMNER. 275 

mended liis soul, in dying, " to his great Captain, Christ." The 
people were grateful and atiectionate ; for they trusted the charac- 
ter of their " Father Wilhani : " and not all the clouds which cal- 
umny could collect ever dimmed to their eyes the radiance of 
that lofty mind to which they were accustomed, in the darkest 
calamities, to look for light. As long as he lived, he was the 
guiding-star of a whole brave nation ; and, when he died, the little 
children cried in the streets. 



CHAKLES SUMKER 

Born Jan. 6, 1811, Massachusetts. 

Orator, statesman, and philanthropist. Every question of law, politics, or morals, 
that this distinguished scholar touches upon, is treated in an eloquent and exhaus- 
tive manner. His essays, speeches, and orations are now publishing hi several 
volumes. 



FINGER-POINT FROM PLYMOUTH ROCK. 

Mr. President., — You bid me speak for the Senate of the 
United States. But I can not forget that there is another voice 
here, of classical eloquence, which might more fitly render this 
service. As one of the humblest members of that bodj^, and asso- 
ciated with the public councils for a brief period oi\\y, I should 
prefer that my distinguished colleague [Mr. Everett], whose fame 
is linked with a long political life, should speak for it. And there 
is yet another here [Mr. Hale], who, though not at this moment 
a member of the Senate, has throughout an active and brilliant 
career, marked by a rare combination of ability, eloquence, and 
good humor, so identified himself with it in the public mind, that 
he might well speak for it always ; and, when he speaks, all are 
pleased to listen. But, sir, you have ordered it otherwise. 

From the tears and trials at Delft Haven, from the deck of " The 
Mayflower," from the landing at Plymouth E,ock, to the Senate 
of the United States, is a mighty contrast, covering whole spaces 
of history, — hardly less than from the wolf that suckled Eomulus 
and Remus to that E-oman Senate, which, on curule chairs, swayed 
Italy and the world. From these obscure beginnings of poverty 
and weakness, which you now piously commemorate, and on which 
all our minds naturally rest to-day, you bid us leap to that marble 
capitol, where thirty-one powerful republics, bound in indissoluble 
union, a plural unit, are gathered together in legislative body, 
constituting a part of one government, which, stretching from 



276 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ocean to ocean, and counting millions of people beneath its majes- 
tic rule, surpasses far in wealth and might any government of the 
Old World when the little band of Pilgrims left it ; and now prom- 
ises to be a clasp between Europe and Asia, bringing the most 
distant places near together, so that there shall be no more Ori- 
ent or Occident. It were interesting to dwell on the stages of 
this grand procession ; but it is enough, on this occasion, merely 
to glance at them, and pass on. 

Sir, it is the Pilgrims that we commemorate to-day, not the 
Senate. For this moment, at least, let us tread under foot all 
pride of empire, all exultation in our manifold triumphs of 
industry, of science, of literature, with all the crowding antici- 
pations of the vast untold future, that we may reverently bow 
before the forefathers. The day is tieirs. In the contemplation 
of their virtue we shall derive a lesson, which, like truth, may 
judge us sternly ; but it we can really follow it, like truth, it 
shall make us free. For myself, I accept the admonitions of the 
day. It may teach us all, never by word or act, although we may 
be few in numbers or alone, to swerve from those primal princi- 
ples of duty, which, from the landing at Plymouth Pock, have 
been the life of Massachusetts. Let me briefly unfold the lesson ; 
though, to the discerning soul, it unfolds itself. 

Few persons in history have suffered more from contemporary 
misrepresentation, abuse, and persecution, than the English Puri- 
tans. At first a small body, they were regarded with indifference 
and contempt. But by degrees they grew in numbers, and drew 
into their company men of education, intelligence, and even of 
rank. Reformers in all ages have had little of blessing from the 
world which tliey sought to serve ; but the Puritans were not dis- 
heartened. Still they persevered. The obnoxious laws of con- 
formity they vowed to withstand, till, in the fervid language of 
the time, "they be sent back to the darkness from whence they 
came." Through them, the spirit of modern freedom made itself 
potently felt in its great warfare with authority in Church, in 
Literature, and in the State ; in other words, for religious, intel- 
lectual, and political emancipation. The Puritans primarily 
aimed at religious freedom : for -this they contended in Parlia- 
ment, under Elizabeth and James ; for this they suffered. But so 
connected are all these great and glorious interests, that the 
struggles for one have always helped the others. Such service 
did they do, that Hume, whose cold nature sympathized little with 
their burning souls, is obliged to confess, that, to the Puritans 
alone, "the English owe the whole freedom of their constitution." 

As among all reformers, so among them, there were differences 
of degree. Some continued within the pale of the national 
Church, and there pressed their ineffectual attempts in behalf of 



CHARLES SUMKER. 277 

the good cause. Some, at length, driven by conscientious convic- 
tions, and unwilling to be partakers longer in its' enormities, stuug 
also by the cruel excesses of magisterial power, openly disclaimed 
the National Establishment, and became a separate sect, — first 
under the name of Brownists, from the person who had led in this 
new organizcition ; and then under the better name of Separatists. 
I like this word, sir. It has a meaning. After long struggles in 
Pcirliament and out of it, in Church and State, continued through 
successive reigns, the Puritans finally triumphed ; and the de- 
spised sect of Separatists, swollen in numbers, and now under the 
denomination of Independents, with Oliver Cromwell at tlieir head, 
and John Milton as his secretary, ruled England. Thus is pre- 
figured the final triumph of all, however few in numbers, who 
sincerely devote themselves to truth. 

The Pilgrims of Plymouth were among the earliest of the Sep- 
aratists. As such, they knew by bitter experience all the sharp- 
ness of persecution. Against them the men in power raged like 
the heathen. Against them tlie whole fury of the law was 
directed. Some were imprisoned; all were impoverished ; while 
their name became a bj^-word of reproach. For safety and free- 
dom, the little band first sought shelter in Holland, where tliey con- 
tinued in indigence and obscurity for more than ten years ; when 
they w^ere inspired to seek a home in this unknown Western 
world. Such, in brief, is their liistory. I could not say more of 
it witliout intruding upon j^our time : I could not say less without 
injustice to them. Rarely liave austere principles been expressed 
with more gentleness than from their lips. By a covenant witli 
the Lord, they had vowed to walk in all his Avays, according to 
their best endeavors, whatsoever it should cost them ; and also to 
receive whatsoever truth should be made known from the written 
word of God. Repentance and prayers, patience and tears, Avere 
tlieir weapons. " It is not with us," said they, " as with other 
men, whom small things can discourage, or small discontent- 
ments cause to wish themselves at home again." And then, 
again, on another occasion, their souls were lifted to utterance 
like this : " When we are in our graves, it will be all one whether 
we have lived in plenty or penury; whetlier we have died in a bed 
of down, or on locks of straw." Self-sacrifice is never in vain ; and 
they foresaw with the clearness of prophecy, that out of their 
trials should come a transcendent future. "As one small candle," 
said an early Pilgrim governor, '' may light a thousand, so the light 
kindled here may in some sort shine even to the whole nation." 

And yet these men, with such sublime endurance and such 
lofty faith, are among those who are sometimes called " Puritan 
knaves " and " knaves-Puritans," and who were branded by King 
James as the "very pests in the Church and Commonwealth." 



278 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The small company of our forefathers became the jest and gibe of 
fashion and power. The phrase, "men of one idea/' had not been 
invented then; but, in equivalent language, they were styled 
"the pinched fanatics of Le3''den." A contemporary poet, and 
favorite of Charles the First, Thomas Carew, lent his genius to 
their defamation. A mask, from his elegant and careful pen, 
was performed by the monarch and his courtiers, wherein the whole 
plantation of New England was turned to royal sport. The jeer 
broke forth in the exclamation, that it had " purged more virulent 
humors from the politic bodies than guaiacum and all the West- 
Indian drugs from the natural bodies of the kingdom." 

And these outcasts, despised in their own day by the proud and 
great, are the men whom we have met in this goodly number to 
celebrate, — not for any victory of war ; not for any triumph of 
discovery, science, learning, or eloquence ; not for worldly success 
of any kind. How poor are all these things by the side of that 
divine virtue which made them, amidst the reproach, the obloquy, 
and the hardness of the world, hold fast to freedom and truth ! 
Sir, if the honors of this day are not a mockery ; if they do not 
expend themselves in mere selfish gratulation; if they are a 
sincere homage to the character of the Pilgrims (and I can not 
suppose otherwise), — then is it well for us to be here. Standing 
on Plymouth Rock at their great anniversary, we can not fail to 
be elevated by their example. We see clearly what it has done 
for the world, and what it has done for their fame. No pusil- 
lanimous soul here to-day will declare their self-sacrifice, their de- 
viation from received opinions, their unquenchable thirst for liber- 
ty, an error or illusion. From gushing multitudinous hearts we 
now thank these lowly men that they dared to be true and brave. 
Conformity or compromise might, perhaps, have purchased for 
them a profitable peace, but not peace of mind ; it might have 
secured place and power, but not repose ; it might have opened a 
present shelter, but not a home in history and in men's hearts till 
time shall be no more. All will confess the true grandeur of their 
example, while, in vindication of a cherished principle, they stood 
alone, against the madness of men, against the law of the land, 
against their king. Better be the despised Pilgrim, a fugitive 
for freedom, than the halting politician, forgetful of principle, 
" with a senate at his heels."' 

Such, sir, is the voice from Plymouth Pock as it salutes my 
ears. Others may not hear it ; but to me it comes in tones 
which I can not mistake. I catch its words of noble cheer : — 

"New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth. 
They must upward still and ouAvard avIio would keep abreast of Truth: 
Lo! befoi-e us jrleara her camp-fires. We ourselves must Pilgrims be, 
Launch our ' Mayflower,' and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea." 

Speech at the Plymouth Festival, August, 1853. 



CHARLES SUMNER. 279 



EXPENSES OF WAR AND EDUCATION COMPARED. 

It appears from the last report of the treasurer of Harvard 
University, that its whole available property — the various accu- 
mulations of more than two centuries of generosity — amounts to 
$703,175. 

There now swings idly at her moorings in this harbor a ship 
of the line, " The Ohio," carrying ninety guns, finished as late as 
1836, for $547,888 ; repaired only two years afterwards, in 1838, 
for $2*23,012; with an armament which has cost $53,945; mak- 
ing an amount of $834,845 as the actual cost at this moment of 
that single ship, — more than $100,000 beyond all the available 
accumulations of the richest and most ancient seat of learning in 
the land ! Choose ye, my fellow-citizens of a Christian State, be- 
tween the two caskets, — that wherein is the loveliness of knowl- 
edge and truth, or that which contains the carrion death. 

Still further let us pursue the comparison. The pay of the 
captain of a ship like " The Ohio " is $4,500 when in service ; 
$3,500 when on leave of absence, or off duty. The salary of the 
president of Harvard University is $2,205, without leave of ab- 
sence, and never being off duty. 

If the large endowments of Harvard University are dwarfed by 
a comparison with the expense of a single ship of the line, how 
much more must it be so with those of other institutions of learn- 
ing and beneficence less favored by the bounty of many genera- 
tions ! The average cost of a sloop of war is $315,000; more, 
probably, than all the endowments of those twin-stars of learning 
in the western part of Massachusetts, — the colleges at Williams- 
town and Amherst ; and of that single star in the east, the guide 
to many ingenuous youth, — the seminar}^ at Andover. The yearly 
cost of a sloop of war in service is above $50,000; more than the 
annual expenditures of these three institutions combined. 

Take all the institutions of learning and beneficence, — the pre- 
cious jewels of the Commonwealth, — the schools, colleges, hospitals, 
and asylums, and the sums by which they have been purchased 
and preserved are trivial and beggarly compared with the treas- 
ures squandered within the borders of Massachusetts in vain 
preparations for war. There is the navy-yard at Charlestown, 
with its stores on hand, all costing $4,741,000 ; the fortifications 
in the harbors of Massachusetts, in which have been sunk already 
incalculable sums, and in which it is now proposed to sink 
$3,853,000 more ; and, besides, the arsenal at Springfield, con- 
taining, in 1842, 175,118 muskets, valued at $2,999,998, and 
which is fed by an annual appropriation of about $200,000, but 
whose highest value will ever be, in the judgment of all lovers of 



280 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

truth, that it inspired a poem, which in its influence shall be 
mightier than a battle, and shall endure when arsenals and forti- 
fications have crumbled to the earth. 



JUDICIAL TRIBUNALS. 

Let me here say, that I hold judges, and especially the Supreme 
Court of the counUy, in much respect ; but I am too familiar with 
the history of judicial proceedings to regard them with any super- 
stitious reverence. Judges are but men, and, in all ages, have 
shown a full share of human frailty. Alas, alas ! the worst 
crimes of history have been perpetrated under their sanction. 
The blood of martyrs and of patriots, crjang from the ground, 
summons them to judgment. It was a judicial tribunal which 
condemned Socrates to drink the fatal hemlock, and which pushed 
the Saviour barefoot over the pavements of Jerusalem, bending 
beneath his cross. It was a judicial tribunal, which, against the 
testimony and entreaties of her father, surrendered the fair Vir- 
ginia as a slave ; which arrested the teachings of the great apostle 
to the Gentiles, and sent him in bonds from Judaea to Rome ; 
which, in the name of the old religion, adjudged the saints and 
fathers of the Christian Church to death in all its most dreadful 
forms ; and which afterwards, in tlie name of the new religion, 
enforced the tortures of the Inquisition amidst the shrieks and 
agonies of its victims, while it compelled Galileo to declare, in 
solemn denial of the great truth he had disclosed, that the earth 
did not move round the sun. It was a judicial tribunal, which in 
France, during tlie long reign of her monarchs, lent itself to be 
the instrument of every tyranny, as, during the brief Reign of 
Terror, it did not hesitate to stand forth the unpitying accessory of 
the unpitjdng guillotine. Ay, sir, it was a judicial tribunal in 
England, surrounded by all the forms of law, which sanctioned 
every despotic caprice of Henry the Eighth, from the unjust 
divorce of his queen to the beheading of Sir Thomas More ; 
which lighted the fires of persecution that glowed at Oxford and 
Smithfield over the cinders of Latimer, Ridley, and John Rogers ; 
which, after elaborate argument, upheld the fatal tyranny of ship- 
money against the patriot resistance of Hampden ; which, in 
defiance of justice and humanity, sent Sidney and Russell to the 
block ; which persistently enforced the laws of conform it}^ that 
our Puritan Fathers persistently refused to obey; and which 
afterwards, with Jeffries on the bench, crimsoned the pages of 
English history with massacre and murder. — even with the blood 
of innocent woman. Ay, sir, and it was a judicial tribunal in our 



EDWARD EVERETT. 281 

country, surrounded by all the forms of law, which hung witches 
at Salem ; which affirmed the constitutionalit}'' of the Stamp Act, 
while it admonished "jurors and the people " to obey ; and 
which now, in our day, has lent its sanction to the unutterable 
atrocity of the Eugitive-slave Bill. 

Speech at Worcester, St^ptember, 1854. 



EDWARD EYEKETT. 

1794-1866, 

This distinguished scholar, orator, and statesman was born in Dorchester, Mass. 
Of a wonderful memory, he committed all his rhetorically faultless orations and 
speeches, and decJaimed them witli the most studied precision of gesture. What- 
ever the subject or occasion, we find the same grace and elegance of manner in 
style and speech. From the third volume of his works we make two selections. 



DUDLEY OBSERVATORY, ALBANY, 1856. 

We derive from the observations of the heavenl}^ bodies which 
are made at an observatory our only adequate measures of time, 
and our only means of comparing the time of one place with the 
time of another. Our artificial timekeepers, — clocks, watches, 
and chronometers, — however ingeniously contrived and admira- 
bly fabricated, are but a transcript, so to sa}', of the celestial mo- 
tions, and would be of no value without the means of regulating 
them by observation. It is impossible for them, under any cir- 
cumstances, to escape the imperfection of all machinery, the work 
of Imman hands ; and, the moment we remove with our time- 
keeper east or west, it fails us. It will keep home-time alone, like 
the fond trai^eler who leaves his lieart behind him. Tlie artifi- 
cial instrument is of incalculable utilit}^, but must itself be regu- 
lated by the eternal clockwork of tlie skies. 

This single consideration is sufficient to show how completely 
the daily business of life is affected and controlled by the heavenly 
bodies. It is they, and not our main-springs, our expansion- 
balances, and our compensation-pendulums, which give us our 
time. To reverse the line of Pope, — 

"'Tis with our Avatches as our judgments: none 
Go just alike; yet each believes his own." 

But for all the kindreds and tribes and tongues of men, — each 
upon their own meridian, — from the arctic pole to the equator, 



282 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

from the equator to the antarctic pole, the eternal sun strikes 
twelve at noon, and the glorious constellations far up in the ever- 
lasting belfries of the skies chime twelve at midnight, — twelve 
for the pale student over his flickering lamp ; twelve amid the 
flaming wonders of Orion's belt, if he crosses the meridian at that 
fated hour; twelve by the weary couch of languishing humanity; 
twelve in the star-paved courts of the empyrean ; twelve for the 
heaving tides of the ocean ; twelve for the weary arm of labor ; 
twelve for the toiling brain ; twelve for the watching, waking, 
broken heart; twelve for the meteor which blazes for a moment, 
and expires ; twelve for the comet whose period is measured by 
centuries; twelve for every substantial, for everjMmaginary thing, 
whicli exists in the sense, the intellect, or the fanc}^, and which 
the speech or thought of man at the given meridian refers to the 
lapse of time. 

I had occasion, a few weeks since, to take the early train from 
Providence to Boston, and for this purpose rose at two o'clock in 
the morning. Every thing around was wrapped in darkness, and 
hushed in silence, broken only by what seemed at that hour the 
unearthly clank and rush of the train. It was a mild, serene 
midsummer's night: the sky was without a cloud; the winds were 
whist. The moon, then in the last quarter, had just risen ; and 
the stars shone with a spectral luster but little affected by her 
presence. Jupiter, two hours high, was the herald of the daj^; 
the Pleiades, just above the horizon, slied their sweet influence in 
the east ; Lyra sparkled near the zenith ; Andromeda veiled her 
newly-discovered glories from tlie naked eye in the south ; the 
steady Pointers far beneath the pole looked meekly up from the 
depths of the north to their sovereign. 

Such was the glorious spectacle as I entered the train. As we 
proceeded, the timid approach of twilight became more percepti- 
ble ; the intense blue of the sky began to soften; the smaller 
stars, like little children, went first to rest ; the sister-beams of 
the Pleiades soon melted together: but the bright constellations 
of the west and north remained unchanged. Steadil_y the won- 
drous transfiguration went on. Hands of angels hidden from 
mortal eyes shifted the scenery of the heavens ; the glories of night 
dissolved into the glories of the dawn. The blue sky now turned 
more softly gray ; the great watch-stars shut up their holy eyes ; 
the east began to kindle. Faint streaks of purple soon blushed 
along the sky ; the whole celestial concave was filled with the in- 
flowing tides of the morning light, which came pouring down 
from above in one great ocean of radiance ; till at length, as we 
reached the Blue Hills, a flash of purple fire blazed out from above 
the horizoii, and turned the dewy tear-drops of flower and leaf 



EDWARD EVERETT. 283 

into rabies and diamonds. In a few seconds, the everlasting gates 
of the morning were thrown wide open, and the lord of day, ar- 
rayed in glories too severe for the gaze of man, began his state. 



ADDRESS BEFORE THE NEW-YORK AGRICULTURAL 

SOCIETY, 1857. 

A CELEBEATED skeptical philosopher of the last century — the 
historian Hume — thought to demolish the credibility of the 
Cln-istian revelation by the concise argument, " It is contrary 
to experience that a miracle should be true, but not contrary to 
experience that testimony should be false." Contrary to experi- 
rience that phenomena should exist which we can not trace to 
causes perceptible to the human sense or conceivable by human 
thought ! It would be much nearer the truth to say, that, within 
the husbandman's experience, there are no phenomena which can 
be rationally traced to any thing but the instant energy of crea- 
tive power. 

Did this philosopher ever contemplate the landscape at the close 
of the year, when seeds and grains and fruits have ripened, and 
stalks have withered, and leaves have fallen, and Winter has forced 
her icy curb even into the roaring jaws of Niagara, and sheeted 
half a continent in her glittering shroud, and all this teeming vege- 
tation and organized life are locked in cold and marble obstruc- 
tions ? And after week upon week, and month upon month, have 
swept, with sleet, and chilly rain, and howling storm, over the 
earth, and riveted their crystal bolts upon the door of Nature's 
sepulcher, — when the sun at length begins to wheel in higher 
circles through the skj, and softer winds to breathe over melting 
snows, — did he ever behold the long-hidden earth at length ap- 
pear, and soon the timid grass peep forth, and anon the autumnal 
wheat begin to paint the field, and velvet leaflets to burst from 
purple buds throughout the reviving forest, and then the mellow 
soil to open its fruitful bosom to every grain and seed dropped 
from the planter's hand, — buried, but to spring up again, clothed 
with a new, mysterious being? And then, as more fervid suns in- 
flame the air, and softer showers distill from the clouds, and 
gentler dews string their pearls on twig and tendril, did he ever 
watch the ripening grain and fruit, pendent from stalk and vine 
and tree ; the meadow, the field, the pasture, the grove, each after 
his kind, arrayed in myriad-tinted garments, instinct with circu- 
lating life ; seven millions of counted leaves on a single tree, each 
of which is a sj^stem whose exquisite complication puts to shame 
the shrewdest cunning of the human handj every planted seed 



284 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and grain which had been loaned to the earth compounding its 
pious usury thirty, sixty, a hundred fold, — all harmoniously 
adapted to the sustenance of living nature, the bread of a hungry 
world ; here a tilled corn-field, whose yellow blades are nodding 
with the food of man ; there an unplanted wilderness, — the 
great Father's farm, — where He " who hears the raven's cry " 
has cultivated with his own hand his merciful crop of berries 
and nuts and acorns and seeds for the humbler families of ani- 
mated nature, — the solemn elephant; the browsing deer; the wild 
pigeon, whose fluttering caravan darkens the sky ; the merry 
squirrel, who bounds from branch to branch in the joy of his 
little life, — has he seen all this ? Does he see it every year and 
month and day ? Does he live and move and breathe and 
think in this atmosphere of wonder, — himself the greatest won- 
der of all, whose smallest fiber and faintest pulsation is as much a 
mystery as the blazing glories of Orion's belt ? And does he still 
maintain that a miracle is contrary to experience ? If he has, 
and if he does, then let him go, in the name of Heaven, and say 
that it is contrary to experience that the august Power which turns 
the clods of the earth into the daily bread of a thousand million 
souls could feed five thousand in the wilderness. 

One more suggestion, my friends, and I relieve your patience. 
As a work of art, I know few things more pleasing to the eye, or 
more capable of affording scope and gratification to a taste for the 
beautiful, than a well-situated, well-cultivated farm. The man of 
refinement will hang with nev^er- wearied gaze on a landscape by 
Claude or Salvator : the price of a section of the most fertile land 
in the West would not purchase a few square feet of the canvas 
on which these great artists have depicted a rural scene. But 
Nature has forms and proportions beyond the painter's skill : her 
divine pencil touches the landscape with living lights and shadows 
never mingled on his pallet. What is there on earth which can 
more entirely charm the eye or gratify the taste than a noble 
farm? It stands upon a southern slope, gradually rising with 
variegated ascent from the plain, sheltered from the north-western 
winds by woody hights, broken here and there with moss-covered 
bowlders, which impart variety and strength to the outline. The 
native forest has been cleared from the greater part of the farm ; but 
a suitable portion, carefully tended, remains in wood for economical 
purposes, and to give a picturesque effect to the landscape. The 
eye ranges round three-fourths of the horizon over a fertile ex- 
panse — bright with the cheerful waters of a rippling stream, a 
generous river, or a gleaming lake — dotted with hamlets, each 
with its modest spire ; and, if the farm lies in the vicinity of the 
coast, a distant glimpse, from the high grounds, of the mysterious, 
everlasting sea, completes the prospect. It is situated off the high 



EDWAED EVERETT. 285 

road, but near enougli to the village to be easily accessible to the 
church, the schoolhouse, the post-office, the railroad, a sociable 
neighbor, or a traveling friend. It consists, in due proportion, of 
pasture and tillage, meadow and woodland, tield and garden. A 
substantial dwelling, with every thing for convenience, and nothing 
for ambition, — with the fitting appendages of stable and barn 
and corn-barn and other farm buildings, not forgetting a spring- 
house with a living fountain of water, — occupies upon a gravelly 
knoll a position well chosen to command the whole estate. A 
few acres on the front and on the sides of the dwelling, set apart 
to gratif)'" the eye, with the choicer forms of rural beauty, are 
adorned with a stately avenue, with noble, solitary trees, with 
graceful clumps, shady walks, a velvet lawn, a brook murmuring 
over a pebbly bed, here and there a grand rock whose cool shadow 
at sunset streams across the field ; all displaying in the real love- 
liness of ISTature the original of those landscapes of which Art in 
its perfection strives to give us the counterfeit presentment. 
Animals of select breed, such as Paul Potter and Morland and 
Landseer and E-osa Bonheur never painted, roam the pastures, or 
fill the hurdles and the stalls ; the plow walks in rustic majesty 
across the plain, and opens the genial bosom of the earth to the sun 
and air; Nature's holy sacrament of seed-time is solemnized be- 
neath the vaulted cathedral sky ; silent dews and gentle showers 
and kindly sunshine shed their sweet influence on the teeming 
soil; springing verdure clothes the plain ; golden wavelets, driven 
by the west wind, run over the joj^ous wheat-field; the tall maize 
flaunts in her crispy leaves and nodding tassels. While we labor and 
while we rest, while we wake and while we sleep, God's chemistrj^, 
which we can not see, goes on beneath the clods; myriads and 
myriads of vital cells ferment with elemental life ; germ and 
stalk, and leaf and flower, and silk and tassel, and grain and fruit, 
grow up from the common earth ; the mowing-machine and the 
reaper — mute rivals of human industry — perform their gladsome 
task ; the well-piled wagon brings home the ripened treasures of 
the year ; the bow of promise fulfilled spans the foreground of the 
picture ; and the gracious covenant is redeemed, that, while the 
earth remaineth, summer and winter, and heat and cold, and day 
and night, and seed-time and harvest, shall not fail. 



286 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. 

DANIEL WEBSTER 

1782-1852. 

Born in Salisbury, N. H. As a jurist, statesman, and orator, he had no superior, 
and but few equals, in ancient or modern times. His reply to Hayne in the United- 
States Senate (1830) won him the title of the "Godlike Daniel." His life and 
speeches make several volumes. 



ELOQUENCE. 

Wheist public bodies are to be addressed on momentous occa- 
sions, when great interests are at stake and strong passions 
excited, notliing is valuable in speech further than it is connected 
with high intellectual and moral endowments. Clearness, force, 
and earnestness are the qualities which produce conviction. 

True eloquence does not consist in speech. It can not be 
brought from afar. Labor and learning may toil for it ; but they 
will toil in vain. Words and phrases may be marshaled in every 
way ; but they can not compass it. It must exist in the man, in 
the subject, and in the occasion. Affected passion, intense ex- 
pression, the pomp of declamation, — all may aspire after it: they 
can not reacli it. It comes, if it come at all, like the outbreaking 
of a fountain from the earth, or the bursting-forth of volcanic 
fires, — with spontaneous, original, native force. Tlie graces taught 
in the schools, the costly ornaments and studied contrivances of 
speech, shock and disgust men, when their own lives, and the 
fate of their wives, tlieir children, and their country, hang on the 
decision of the hour. Then words have lost their power; rhetoric 
is vain, and all elaborate oratory contemptible. Even genius 
itself then feels rebuked and subdued, as in the presence of 
higher qualities. Then patriotism is eloquent ; then self-devotion 
is eloquent. The clear conception, outrunning the deductions of 
logic, the higli purpose, the firm resolve, the dauntless spirit, 
speaking on the tongue, beaming from the eye, informing every 
feature, and urging the whole man onward, right onward, to his 
object, — this, this is eloquence : or, rather, it is something greater 
and higher than all eloquence; it is action, — noble, sublime, 
Godlike action. 

BUNKER-HILL MONUMENT. 

We know that the record of illustrious actions is most safely 
deposited in the universal remembrance of mankind. We know 
that if we could cause this structure to ascend, not only till it 
reached the skies, but tiU it pierced them, its broad surface would 



DANIEL WEBSTER. 287 

still contain but part of that, which, in an age of knowledge, hath 
already been spread over the earth, and which History charges 
herself with making known to all future times. We know that 
no inscription on entablatures less broad than the earth itself can 
carry information of the events we commemorate where it has not 
already gone ; and that no structure which shall not outlive the 
duration of letters and knowledge among men can prolong the 
memorial. But our object is, hy this edifice, to show our deep 
sense of the value and importance of the achievements of our an- 
cestors ; and, by presenting this work of gratitude to the eye, to 
keep alive similar sentiments, and to foster a similar regard to the 
principles of the Kevohition. Human beings are composed, not 
of reason only, but of imagination also, and sentiment ; and that 
is neither wasted nor misapplied which is appropriated to the pur- 
pose of giving right direction to sentiments, and opening proper 
springs of feeling in the heart. 

Let it not be supposed that our object in erecting this edifice is 
to perpetuate national hostility, or even to cherish a mere military 
spirit. It is higher, purer, nobler. We consecrate our work to 
the spirit of national independence ; and we wish that the light of 
peace may rest upon it for ever. We rear a memorial of our con- 
viction of that unmeasured benefit which has been conferred on 
our own land, and of the happy influences which have been pro- 
duced by the same events on the general interests of mankind. 
We come, as Americans, to mark a spot which must for ever be 
dear to us and our posterity. We wish that Avhosoever, in all 
coming time, shall turn his eye hither, maj^ behold that the place 
is not undistinguished where the first great battle of tlie Revolu- 
tion was fought. We wish that this structure may proclaim the 
magnitude and importance of that event to every class and every 
age. We wish that infancy may learn the purpose of its erection 
from maternal lips ; and that weary and withered age may behold 
it, and be solaced by the recollections which it suggests. We 
wish that labor may look up here, and be proud, in the midst of 
its toil. We wish, that in those days of disaster, which, as they 
come on all nations, must be expected to come on us also, de- 
sponding patriotism may turn its eyes hitherward, and be assured 
that the foundations of our national power still stand strong. We 
wish that this column, rising toward heaven -among the pointed 
spires of so many temples dedicated to God, may contribute also 
to produce in all minds a pious feeling of dependence and grati- 
tude. We wish, finally, that the last object on the sight of him 
who leaves his native shore, and the first to gladden his who 
revisits it, may be something which shall remind him of the lib- 
erty and glory of his country. Let it rise till it meet the sun in 
his coming ; let the earliest light of the morning gild it, and part- 
ing day linger and play on its summit. 



288 ENGLISH LITEEATUHE. 



CRIME REVEALED BY CONSCIENCE. 

The deed* was executed with a degree of self-possession and 
steadiness equal to the wickedness with which it was planned. 
The circumstances now clearly in evidence spread out the whole 
scene before us. Deep sleep had fallen on the destined victim, 
and on all beneath his roof. A healthful old man, to whom sleep 
was sweet, the first sound slumbers of the night held him in their 
soft but strong embrace. The assassin enters, through the win- 
dow already prepared, into an unoccupied apartment. With 
noiseless foot he paces the lonely hall, half lighted by the moon. 
He winds up the ascent of the stairs, and reaches the door of the 
chamber. Of this he moves the lock, by soft and continued 
pressure, till it turns on its hinges without noise ; and he enters, 
and beholds his victim before him. The room was uncommonly 
open to the admission of light. The face of the innocent sleeper 
was turned from the murderer ; and the beams of the moon, rest- 
ing on the gray locks of his aged temple, showed him where to 
strike. The fatal blow is given ; and the victim passes, without 
a, struggle or a motion, from the repose of sleep to the repose of 
death. It is the assassin's purpose to make sure work ; and he 
yet plies the dagger, though it was obvious that life had been de- 
stroyed by the blow of the bludgeon. He even raises the aged 
arm, that he may not fail in his aim at the heart, and replaces it 
again over the wounds of the poniard. To finish the picture, he 
explores the wrist for the pulse. He feels for it, and ascertains 
that it beats no longer. It is accomplished. The deed is done. 
He retreats, retraces his steps to the window, passes out through 
it as he came in, and escapes. He has done the murder : no eye 
has seen him ; no ear has heard him. The secret is his own, and 
it is safe. 

Ah, gentlemen ! that was a dreadful mistake. Such a secret 
can be safe nowhere. The whole creation of God has neither 
nook nor corner where the guilty can bestow it, and say it is safe. 
Not to speak of that Eye which glances through all disguises, and 
beholds every thing as in the sj^lendor of noon, such secrets of 
guilt are never safe from detection, even by men. True it is, 
generally speaking, that " murder will out." True it is, that 
Providence hath so ordained, and doth so govern things, that 
those who break the great law of heaven by shedding man's 
blood, seldom succeed in avoiding discovery. Especially in a 
case exciting so much attention as this, discovery must come, and 
will come sooner or later. A thousand eyes turn at once to ex- 
plore every man, every thing, every circumstance, connected with 

* The murder of Joseph White, Esq., of Salem, Mass., April 6, 1830. 



DANIEL WEBSTEil. 289 

the time and place ; a thousand ears catch every whisper ; a thou- 
sand excited minds intensely dwell on the scene, shedding all 
their light, and ready to kindle the slightest circumstance into a 
blaze of discovery. Meantime, the guilty soul can not keep its 
own secret. It is false to itself; or, rather, it feels an irresistible 
impulse of conscience to be true to itself. It labors under its 
guilty possession, and knows not what to do with it. The human 
heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant. It 
finds itself preyed on by a torment which it dares not acknowl- 
edge to God nor man. A vulture is devouring it; and it can ask no 
sympathy or assistance either from heaven or earth. The secret 
which the murderer possesses soon comes to possess him ; and, like 
the evil spirits of which we read, it overcomes him, and leads him 
whithersoever it will. He feels it beating at his heart, rising to 
his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world 
sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its work- 
ings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his 
master. It betrays his discretion ; it breaks down his courage ; it 
conquers his prudence. When suspicions from without begin to 
embarrass him, and the net of circumstances to entangle hira, the 
fatal secret struggles with still greater violence to burst forth. It 
must be confessed ; it will be confessed : there is no refuge from 
confession but suicide ; and suicide is confession. 



REPLY TO HAYNE. 

It was put as a question for me to answer, and so put as if it 
were difficult for me to answer, whether I deemed the member 
from Missouri an overmatch for myself in debate here. It seems 
to me, sir, that this is extraordinary language and an extraor- 
dinary tone for the discussions of this body. Matches and over- 
matches ! — those terms are more applicable elsewhere than here, 
and fitter for other assemblies than this. Sir, the gentleman 
seems to forget where and what we are. This is a senate, — a sen- 
ate of equals, of men of individual honor and personal character, 
and of absolute independence. We know no masters ; we ac- 
knowledge no dictators. This is a hall for mutual consultation 
and discussion ; not an arena for the exhibition of champions. I 
offer myself, sir, as a match for no man. I throw the challenge 
of debate at no man's feet. But then, sir, since the honorable 
member has put the question in a manner that calls for an an- 
swer, I will give him an answer ; and I tell him, that, holding 
myself to be the humblest of the members here, I yet know noth- 
ing in the arm of his friend from Missouri, either alone or when 

19 



290 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. 

aided by the arm of his friend from South Carolina, that need 
deter even me from espousing whatever opinions I may choose to 
espouse, from debating whenever I may choose to debate, or from 
speaking whatever I may see fit to say on the floor of the Senate. 
Sir, when uttered as matter of commendation or compliment, I 
should dissent from nothing which the honorable member might 
say of his friend. Still less do I put forth any pretensions of my 
own. But, when put to me as a matter of taunt, I throw it back, 
and say to the gentleman, that he could possibly say nothing less 
likely than such a comparison to wound my pride of personal 
character. The anger of its tone rescued the remark from inten- 
tional irony, which otherwise, probably, would have been its gen- 
eral acceptation. But, sir, if it be imagined that by this mutual 
quotation and commendation ; if it be supposed that by casting 
the characters of the drama, assigning to each his part, — to one 
the attack, to another the cry of onset ; or if it be thought that by 
a loud and empty vaunt of anticipated victory, — any laurels are 
to be won here ; if it be imagined, especially, that any or all of 
these things will shake any purpose of mine, — I can tell the hon- 
orable member, once for all, that he is greatly mistaken, and that 
he is dealing with one of whose temper and character he has yet 
much to learn. Sir, I shall not allow myself on this occasion to 
be betrayed into any loss of temper ; but if provoked, as I trust I 
never shall allow mj^self to be, into crimination and recrimination, 
the honorable member may perhaps find, that in that contest 
there will be blows to take as well as blows to give; that others 
can state comparisons as significant, at least, as his own; and that 
his impunity may, perhaps, demand of him whatever powers of 
taunt and sarcasm he may possess. I commend him to a prudent 
husbandry of his resources. 

The eulogium pronounced on the character of the State of South 
Carolina by the honorable gentleman, for her revolutionary and 
other merits, meets my hearty concurrence. I shall not acknowl- 
edge that the honorable member goes before me in regard for 
whatever of distinguished talent or distinguished character South 
Carolina has produced. I claim part of the honor. I partake in 
the pride of her great names. I claim them for countrymen, one 
and all, — the Laurenses, Butledges, the Pinckneys, the Sum- 
ters, the Marions (Americans all), whose fame is no more to 
be hemmed in by State lines than their talents and patriotism 
were capable of being circumscribed within the same narrow 
limits. In their day and generation, they served and honored the 
country, and the whole country ; and their renown is of the treas- 
ures of the whole country. Him whose honored name the gen- 
tleman bears himself — does he suppose me less capable of grati- 



DANIEL WEBSTER. 291 

tude for his patriotism, or sympathy for his sufferings, than if his 
eyes had first opened upon the light in Massachusetts, instead of 
South Carolina ? Sir, does he suppose it in his power to exhibit 
a Carolina name so bright as to produce envy in my bosom ? No, 
sir! — increased gratification and delight, rather. Sir, I thank 
God, that, if I am gifted with little of the spirit which is said to 
be able to raise mortals to the skies, I have yet none, as I trust, 
of that other spirit which would drag angels down. 

When I shall be found, sir, in my place here in the Senate, or 
elsewhere, to sneer at public merit because it happened to spring 
up beyond the little limits of my own State and neighborhood ; 
when I refuse for any such cause, or for any cause, the homage 
due to American talent, to elevated patriotism, to sincere devotion 
to liberty and the country ; or if I see an uncommon endowment 
of heaven, if I see extraordinary capacity and virtue in any 
son of the South ; and if, moved by local prejudice, or gangrened 
by State jealousy, I get up here to abate the tithe of a hair from 
his just character and just fame, — ma}^ my tongue cleave to the 
roof of my mouth ! Sir, let me recur to pleasing recollections ; 
let me indulge in refreshing remembrances of the past ; let me 
remind you, that, in early times, no States cherished greater har- 
mony, both of principle and of feeling, than Massachusetts and 
South Carolina. Would to God that harmony might again re- 
turn! Shoulder to shoulder they went through the Revolution; 
hand in hand they stood round the administration of Washington, 
and felt his own great arm lean on them for support. Unkind 
feeling (if it exist), alienation, and distrust, are the growth, unnat- 
ural to such soils, of false principles since sown. They are weeds, 
the seeds of which that same great arm never scattered. 

Mr. President, I shall enter on no encomium upon Massachu- 
setts: she needs none. There she is: behold her, and judge 
for" yourselves. There is her history : the world knows it by 
heart. The past, at least, is secure. There is Boston and Con- 
cord and Lexington and Bunker Hill; and there they will re- 
main for ever. The bones of her sons, falling in the great struggle 
for independence, now lie mingled with the soil of every State, 
from New England to Georgia ; and there they will lie for ever. 
Arid, sir, where American liberty raised its first voice, and where 
its youth was nurtured and sustained, there it still lives in the 
strength of its manhood, and full of its original spirit. If discord 
and disunion shall wound it ; if party strife and blind ambition 
shall hawk at and tear it ; if folly and madness, if uneasiness under 
salutary and necessary restraint, shall succeed to separate it from 
that union by which alone its existence is made sure, — it will 
stand in the end by the side of that cradle in which its infancy 



292 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

was rocked; it will stretch forth its arm, with whatever of vigor 
it may still retain, over the friends who gather round it ; and it 
will fall at last, if fall it must, amidst the proudest monuments of 
its own glory, and on the very spot of its origin. 

Mr. President, I have thus stated the reasons of my dissent 
to the doctrines which have been advanced and maintained. I 
am conscious of having detained you and the Senate much too 
long. I was drawn into the debate with no previous delibera- 
tion such as is suited to the discussion of so grave and important 
a. subject : but it is a subject of which my heart is full ; and I 
have not been willing to suppress the utterance of its spontaneous 
sentiments. I can not, even now, persuade myself to relinquish 
it, without expressing once more my deep conviction, that, since 
it respects nothing less than the union of the States, it is of most 
vital and essential importance to the public happiness. I profess, 
sir, in my career hitherto, to have kept steadily in view the pros- 
perity and honor of the whole country, and the preservation of 
our Federal Union. It is to that Union that we owe our safety at 
home, and our consideration and dignity abroad. It is to that 
Union that we are chiefly indebted for whatever makes us most 
proud of our country. That Union we reached only by the dis- 
cipline of our virtues in the severe school of adversity. It had its 
origin in the necessities of disordered finance, prostrate com- 
mejrce, and ruined credit. Under its benign influences, these 
great interests immediately awoke as from the dead, and sprang 
forth with newness of life. Every year of its duration has teemed 
with fresh proofs of its utility and its bkssings ; and although 
our territory has stretched out wider and wider, and our popula- 
tion spread farther and farther, they have not outrun its protec- 
tion or its benefits. It has been to us all a copious fountain of 
national, social, and personal happiness. I have not allowed my- 
self, sir, to look beyond the Union to see what might lie hidden 
in the dark recess behind. I have not coolly weighed the chances 
of preserving liberty when the bonds that unite us together shall 
be broken asunder. I have not accustomed myself to hang over 
the precipice of disunion to see whether, with nij short sight, I 
can fathom the depth of the abyss below ; nor could I regard him 
as a safe counselor in the affairs of this government whose 
thoughts should be mainly bent on considering, not how the Union 
should be best preserved, but how tolerable might be the condition 
of the people when it shall be broken up and destroyed. While 
the Union lasts, we have high, exciting, gratifying prospects 
spread out before us for us and our children. Beyond tliat, I seek 
not to penetrate the veil. God grant, that, in my day at least, that 
curtain may not rise ! God grant, that on my vision never may be 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 293 

opened what lies behind ! When my eyes shall be turned to be- 
hold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him 
shining on the broken and dishonored fragments of a once-glo- 
rious Union; on States dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a 
land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal 
blood ! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold 
the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honored 
throughout the earth, still full high advanced, its arms and tro- 
phies streaming in their original luster, not a stripe erased or pol- 
luted, nor a single star obscured ; bearing for its motto no such 
miserable interrogatory as. What is all this tvorth ? nor those 
other words of delusion and folly, Liberty first, and Union after- 
wards ; but everywhere, spread all over in characters of living 
light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and 
over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that 
other sentiment, dear to every true American heart, — Liberty a?i(^ 
Union, now and forever, one and inseparable. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 

1772-1834. 

Has left a few fragments of sufficient excellence to prove that he lacked the one 

f'eat element of successful genius, — the decision of character to execute a plan, 
is essays and fragments of poems are valued for the critical and imaginative power 
shown. 



TEE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



It is an ancient mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three : 

" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

" The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set : 
May St hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand : 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " 

Eftsoons his hand dropped he. 



294 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



He holds him with his glittering eye : 
The wedding-guest stood still, 
And listens like a three-years' child : 
The mariner hath his will. 

The wedding-guest sat on a stone ; 
He can not choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed mariner : — 

" Tlie ship was cheered, the harbor cleared s 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

" The sun came up upon the left ; 
Out of the sea came he ; 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 

" Higher and higher every day. 

Till over the mast at noon " — 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast ; 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall ; 
Red as a rose is she : 
Nodding their heads, before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

Tlie wedding-guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he can not choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man. 
The bright-eyed mariner : — 

" And now the storm-blast came ; and he 
Was tyrannous and strong : 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings. 
And chased us south along. 

" With sloping masts and dipping prow, — 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, — 

The ship drove fast ; loud roared the blast ; 

And southward aye we fled. 

" And now there came both mist and snow ; 

And it grew wondrous cold ; 

And ice mast-high came floating by, 

As green as emerald. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE, 295 

" And tlirougli tlie drifts the snowy cliffs 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken, — 
The ice was all between. 

" The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 

Like noises in a swound. 

" At length did cross an albatross j 

Thorough the fog it came : 

As if it had been a Christian soul. 

We hailed it in God's name. 

" It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew : 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
The helmsman steered us through. 

" And a good south wind sprung up behind : 

The albatross did follow. 

And every day, for food or play. 

Came to the mariners' hollo. 

" In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

Glim-niered the white moonshine." 

" God save thee, ancient mariner, 
From the fiends that plague thee thus ! 
Why look'st thou so ? " — " With my cross-bow 
I shot the albatross." 



" The sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

" And the good south wind still blew behind ; 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day, for food or play. 
Came to the mariners' hollo. 

" And I had done a hellish thing. 

And it would work 'em woe ; 

For all averred I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

' Ah, wretch ! ' said they, ' the bird to slay 

That made the breeze to blow ! ' 



296 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

" Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious sun uprist : 

Then all averred I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

' 'Twas right,' said they, ' such birds to slay 

That bring the fog and mist/ 

" The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free : 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 

" Down dropt the breeze ; the sails dropt down ; 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea. 

" All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

" Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



" Water, water, everywhere ! 
And all the boards did shrink ; 
Water, water, everywhere 1 
Nor any drop to drink. 

" The very deep did rot : O Christ, 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

" About, about, in reel and rout. 
The death-fires danced at night : 
The waters, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green and blue and white. 

" And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so : 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

" And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root : 
We could not speak no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEEIDGE. 297 

" All, well a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



" The naked hulk alongside came ; 
And the twain were casting dice : 
* The game is done ; I've won, I've won I * 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

" The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out ; 
At one stride comes the dark : 
With far-heard whisper o'er the sea, 
Off shot the specter-bark. 

" We listened, and looked sideways up : 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip. 

The stars were dim, and thick the night ; 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 

Frpm the sails the dew did drip ; 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 

" One after one, by the star-dogged moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye : 

" Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
They dropped down one by one. 

" The souls did from their bodies fly ; 
They fled to bliss or woe ; 
And every soul it passed me by 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow." 



" I fear thee, ancient mariner ; 

I fear thy skinny hand ; 

And thou art long and lank and brown 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 

" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand so brown." 
" Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest ; 
This body dropped not down. 



298 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. 

" Alone, alone, all, all alone, — 
Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

" Tlie many men so beautiful ! — 
And they all dead did lie ; 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on ; and so did I. 

" I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away ; 
I looked upon the rotting deck. 
And there the dead men lay. 

" I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But, or ever a prayer had guslit, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

" I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat ; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 

Lay like a load on my weary eye ; 

And the dead were at my feet. 

" The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they : 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 

" An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But, oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye. 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse ; 

And yet I could not die. 

" The moving moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide ; 
Softly she was going up. 
And a star or two beside. 

" Her beams bemocked the sultry main 

Like April hoar-frost spread ; 

But, where the ship's huge shadow lay, 

The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 

" Beyond the shadow of the ship 

I watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white ; 

And, when they reared, the elfish light 

Fell off in hoary flakes. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 299 

" Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich atthe : 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam ; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire, 

" O happy, living things ! no tongue 

Their beauty might declare : 

A spring of love gushed from my heart, 

And I blessed them unaware : 

Sure, my kind saint took pity on me, 

And I blessed them unaware. 

" The self-same moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea." 



" This hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
HoAv loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

" He kneels at morn and noon and eve ; 

He hath a cushion plump : 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

" Tlie skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk : 
* Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
"W^iere are those lights, so many and fair, 
That signal made but now ? ' 

" ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the hermit said ; 

< And they answered not our cheer. 

The planks looked warped ; and see those sails, 

How thin they are, and sear ! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

" ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along. 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 
That eats the she-wolfs young.' 

" ' Dear Lord, it hath a fiendish look,* 
(The pilot made reply :) 
' I am a-feared.' — ' Push on, push on 1 * 
Said the hermit cheerily. 



300 ENGLISH LITEKATUKE. 



" The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred : 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 

" Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread : 
It reached the ship, it split the bay, — 
The ship went down like lead. 

*' Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned. 

My body lay afloat ; 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the pilot's boat. 

" Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 

The boat spun round and round ; 

And all was still, save that the hill 

Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips, — the pilot shrieked. 

And fell down in a fit ; 

The holy hermit raised his eyes. 

And prayed where he did sit. 

" I took the oars : the pilot's boy. 
Who now doth crazy go, 
Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
His eyes went to and fro. 

* Ha, ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see 
The Devil knows how to row.' 

" And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land : 
The hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

" ' Oh, shrive me, shrive me, holy man I * 
The hermit crossed his brow. 

* Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say, 
What manner of man art thou ? ' 
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrencl^ed 
With a woful agony 

Which forced me to begin my tale. 
And then it left me free. 

" Since then, at an uncertain Hour, 
That agony returns ; 
And, till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 



SAMUEL TAYLOE COLEEIDGE. 301 

" I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech : 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me ; 
To him my tale I teach. 

" What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding-guests are there ; 
But in the garden-bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are : 
And, hark ! the little vesper-bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer I 

" O wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea : 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

" Oh ! sweeter than the marriage-feast, 

'Tis sweeter far to me. 

To walk together to the kirk 

With a goodly company ; 

" To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray ; 

While each to his great Father bends, — 

Old men and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay. 

" Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 

To thee, tho« wedding-guest, — 

He prayeth well who loveth well 

Both man and bird and beast. 

" He prayeth best who loveth best 
All things, both great and small ; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

The mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone ; and now the wedding-guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that 1: 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man 
He rose the morrow morn. 



HYMN 

BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNIX. 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc 1 



302 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The Arve and Arveiron at tliy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form, 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air, and dark, substantial, black, — 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it 
As with a wedge ! But, when I look again, 
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity. 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense. 

Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer, 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, 
So sweet we know not we are listening to it, 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; 
Till the dilating soul, in wrapt, transfused 
Into the mighty vision passing, there. 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven. 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ; not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy. Awake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all, join my hymn ! 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
Oh ! struggling Avith the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink ; 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn. 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald, — wake, oh ! wake, and utter praise ! 
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. 
For ever shattered, and the same for ever ? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
And who commanded (and the silence came), 
" Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest " ? 

Ye icefalls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain ; 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 



THOMAS HOOD. 303 



And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge, — 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? 
" God ! " let the torrents like a shout of nations 
Answer ; and let the ice-plains echo, '• God ! " 
" God ! " sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice ; 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ; 
And they, too, have a voice, — yon piles of snow, — 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, " God 1 " 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ; 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ; 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ; 
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ; 
Ye signs and wonders of the element, — 
Utter forth " God ! " and fill the- hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast, — 
Thou too, again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
To rise before me, — rise, oh ! ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth, 
Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills ; 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven : 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



1798-1845. 



This distinguished wit and humorist had the remarkable power of giving a pun 
the dignity of wit. " Eugene Aram's Dream," " The Song of the Shirt," and " The 
Bridge of 'Sighs," prove his power as a poet, and give him a permanent place in our 
literature. 



THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. 

With fingers weary and worn. 
With eyelids heavy and red, 

A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread. 



304 ENGLISH LITEKATUEE. 

Stitch, stitch, stitch, 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch. 
She sang the " Song of the Shirt : " — 

" Work, work, work, 

AVhile the cock is crowing aloof; 
And work, work, work. 

Till the stars shine through the roof! 
It's, oh ! to be a slave 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, 

If THIS is Christian work ! 

" Work, work, work. 

Till the brain begins to swim ; 
Work, work, work, 

Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! 
Seam and gusset and band. 

Band and gusset and seam. 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in my dream 1 

" O men with sisters dear ! 

O men with mothers and wives I 
It is not linen you're wearing out. 

But human creatures' lives ! 
Stitch, stitch, stitch. 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
Sewing at once, with a double thread, 

A SHROUD as well as a shirt ! 

« But why do I talk of Death, 

That phantom of grisly bone ? 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own ; 
It seems so like my own, 

Because of the fast I keep : 
O God ! that bread should be so dear. 

And flesh and blood so cheap ! 

" Work, work, work : 

My labor never flags. 
And Avhat are its wages ? — a bed of straw, 

A crust of bread, and rags ; 
A shattered roof; and this naked floor ; 

A table ; a broken chair ; 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there ! 

" Work, work, work. 

From weary chime to chime ; 

Work, work, work, 

As prisoners work for crime I 



THOMAS HOOD. 305 

Band and gusset and seam, 

Seam and gusset and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

" Work, work, work. 

In the dull December light ; 
And work, work, work. 

When the weather is warm and bright ; 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling. 
As if to show me their sunny backs, 

And twit me with the spring. 

" Oh but to breathe the breath 

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, 
With the sky above my head, 

And the grass beneath my feet ! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel. 
Before I knew the woes of want. 

And the walk that costs a meal ! 

" Oh but for one short hour, 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for love or hope, 

But only time for grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart : 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop ; for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread ! " 

With fingers weary and worn. 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread ; 
Stitch, stitch, stitch. 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch — 
Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — > 

She sang this " Song of the Shirt." 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

OxE more unfortunate, 

Weary of breath, 
Bashly importunate, 

Gone to her death ! 

Take her up tenderly. 
Lift her with care. 

Fashioned so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair 1 



806 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



Look at lier garments, 
Clinging like cerements ! 

Whilst the wave constantly 
Drips from her clothing" : 

Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully ; 
Think of her mournfully, 

Gently, and humanly ; 
Not of the stains of her : 
All that remains of her 

Now is pm'e womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny, 

Rash and undutiful : 
Past all dishonor, 
Death has left on her 

Only the beautiful. 

Still, for all slips of hers, — • 
One of Eve's family, — 

Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 

Escaped from the comb, — 
Her fair auburn tresses : 
Whilst wonderment guesses 

Where was her home. 

Who was her father ? 

Who was her mother ? 

Had she a sister ? 

Had she a brother ? 

Or was there a dearer one 
Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other ? 

Alas for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 

Under the sun ! 
Oh, it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city-full, 

Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly. 
Fatherly, motherly. 

Feelings had changed : 
Love by harsh evidence 
Thrown from its eminence ; 
Even God's providence 

Seeming estranged. 



THOMAS HOOD. 307 

Where tlie lamps quiver 
So far in the river, 

With many a light 
From window and casement, 
From garret to basement, 
She stood with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 

Made her tremble and shiver ; 
But not the dark arch, 

Or the black flowing river : 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 

Swift to be hurled, — 
Anywhere, anywhere, 

Out of the world ! 

In she plunged boldly. 
No matter how coldly 

The rough river ran : 
Over the brink of it, 
Picture it, think of it, 

Dissolute man ! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 

Then, if you can ! 
Take her up tenderly, 

Lift her with care. 
Fashioned so slenderly. 

Young, and so fau-l 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly. 

Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them ; 
And her eyes — close them, 

Staring so blindly ! — 

Dreadfully staring 

Through muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 

Fixed on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurred by contumely. 
Cold inhumanity 
Burning insanity 

Into her rest. 
Cross her hands humbly. 
As if praying dumbly. 

Over her breast. 



308 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behavior, 

And leaving with meekness 
Her sins to her Saviour. 



A PARENTAL ODE TO MY INFANT SON. 

Thou happy, happy elf! 
(But stop ; first let me kiss away that tear !) 

Thou tiny image of myself! 
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear !) 

Thou merry, laughing sprite, 

With spirit feather-light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin ! 
(Good heavens ! the child is swallowing a pin !) 

Thou little tricksy Puck, 
With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 
Light as the singing bird that wings the air ! 
(The door, the door ! he'll tumble down the stair I) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire !) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy ! 
Tn love's dear chain so strong and bright a link 1 
Thou idol of thy parents ! (Stop the boy I 

There goes my ink !) 

Thou cherub, but of earth I 
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale, 

In harmless sport and mirth ! 
(The dog will bite him if he pulls its tail ;) 

Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 
From every blossom in the world that blows, 

Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny ! 
(Another tumble ! — that's his precious nose I) 

Thy father's pride and hope, 
(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) 
With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint I 
(Where did he learn that squint ?) 

Thou young domestic love I 
(He'll have that jug oiF with another shove !) 

Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest 1 

(Are those torn clothes his best ?) 

Little epitome of man, 
(He'll climb upon the table ; that's his plan !) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life ! 

(He's got a knife !) 

Thou enviable being ! 
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 309 

Play on, play on, 

My elfin John ! 
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick, 
(I knew so many cakes would make him sick !) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk, 

With many a lamb-like frisk ; 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown !) 

Thou pretty opening rose ! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose !) 
Balmy, and breathing music like the south ; 
(He really brings my heart into my mouth !) 
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star ; 
(I wish that window had an iron bar !) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove. 
(I'll tell you what, my love, — 
I can not write unless he's sent above !) 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 

1777-1844. 

Became famous at the age of twenty-two as the author of " Pleasures of Hope." 
"Gertrude of Wyoming," and several familiar pieces, " Hohenlinden," "Exile of 
Erin," "Lord Ullin's Daughter," "The Battle of the Baltic," and "Ye Mariners 
of England," are all noted for the perfection of rhythm, beauty, and force of ex- 
pression. 



PLEASURES OF HOPE. 



At summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow 
Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below, 
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye, 
AVhose sun-bright summit mingles with the sky ? 
Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear 
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ? 
'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, 
And robes the mountain in its azure hue. 
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey 
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way; 
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene 
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been ; 
And every form that Fancy can repair 
From dark oblivion glows divinely there. 
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye 
To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? 



310 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, 

The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ? 

Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man, 

Her dim horizon bounded to a span ; 

Or, if she hold an image to the view, 

'Tis Nature pictured too severely true. 

With thee, sweet Hope ! resides the heavenly light 

That pours remotest rapture on the sight ; 

Thine is the charm of life's "bewildered way, 

That calls each slumbering passion into play : 

Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band. 

On tiptoe watching, start at thy command, 

And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer, — 

To Pleasure's path, or Glory's bright career. 

Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say. 

When Man and Nature mourned their first decay ; 

When every form of death, and every woe, 

Shot from malignant stars to earth below ; 

When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War 

Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ; 

When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain, 

Sprung on the viewless winds to heaven again, — 

All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind ; 

But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind. 

Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare 

From Carmel's hight to sweep the fields of air, 

The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, 

Dropped on the world a sacred gift to man. 

Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow 

Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe : 

Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour 

The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower : 

There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing. 

What peaceful dreams thy handmaid spirits bring I 

What viewless forms the ^olian organ play, 

And sweep the furrowed lines of anxious thought away I 

Angel of Life ! thy glittering wings explore 

Earth's loneliest bounds, and Ocean's wildest shore. 

Lo ! to the wintry winds the pilot yields 

His bark careering o'er unfathomed fields : 

Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar, 

Where Andes, giant of the western star, 

With meteor standard to the winds unfurled, 

Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world. 

Now far he sweeps where scarce a summer smiles, — 

On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles : 

Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow 

From wastes that slumber in eternal snow, 

And waft across the waves' tumultuous roar 

The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore. 

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm. 

Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form ! 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 311 

Rocks, waves, and winds the shattered bark delay : 
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away. 
But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep, 
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep. 
Swifl as yon streamer lights the starry pole. 
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul : 
His native hills that rise in happier climes, 
The grot that heard his song of other times, 
His cottage-home, his bark of slender sail, 
His glassy lake, and broomwood-blossomed vale, 
Rush on his thought : he sweeps before the wind ; 
Treads the loved shore he sighed to leave behind ; 
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face, 
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace ; 
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear, 
And clasps with many a sigh his children dear : 
While, long neglected, but at length caressed. 
His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest, 
Points to the master's eyes (where'er they roam) 
His wistful face, and whines a welcome home. 
Friend of the brave ! in peril's darkest hour, 
Intrepid Virtue looks to thee for power ; 
To thee the heart its trembling homage yields 
On stormy floods and carnage-covered fields. 
When front to front the bannered hosts combine, 
Halt ere they close, and form the dreadful line. 
When all is still on Death's devoted soil. 
The march- worn soldier mingles for the toil : 
As rings his glittering tube, he lifts on high 
The dauntless brow and spirit-speaking eye, 
Hails in his heart the triumph yet to come. 
And hears thy stormy music in the drum. 
And such thy strength-inspiring aid that bore 
The hardy Byron to his native shore : 
In horrid climes, where Chiloe's. tempests sweep 
Tumultuous murmurs o'er the troubled deep, 
*Twas his to mourn Misfortune's rudest shock. 
Scourged by the winds, and cradled on the rock ; 
To wake each joyless morn, and search again 
The famished haunts of solitary men, 
Whose race, unyielding as their native storm, 
Knows not a trace of Nature but the form : 
Yet, at thy call, the hardy tar pursued. 
Pale, but intrepid, sad, but unsubdued ; 
Pierced the deep woods, and, hailing from afar 
The moon's pale planet and the northern star, 
Paused at each dreary cry, unheard before, 
(Hygenas in the wild, and mermaids on the shore ;) 
Till, led by thee o'er many a cliff sublime. 
He found a warmer world, a milder clime, 
A home to rest, a shelter to defend, 
Peace and repose, a Briton and a friend. 



312 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Congenial Hope ! thy passion-kindling power 

How bright, how strong, in youth's untroubled hour I 

On yon proud hight, with Genius hand in hand, 

I see thee light, and wave thy golden wand. 

" Go, child of Heaven ! " (thy winged words proclaim ;) 

*' 'Tis thine to search the boundless fields of fame. 

Lo ! Newton, priest of Nature, shines afar, 

Scans the wide world, and numbers every star : 

Wilt thou with him mysterious rites apply, 

And watch the shrine with wonder-beaming eye ? 

Yes : thou shalt mark with magic art profound 

The speed of light, the circling march of sound ; 

With Franklin grasp the lightning's fiery wing, 

Or yield the lyre of heaven another string. 

The Swedish sage admires in yonder bowers 

His winged insects and his rosy flowers ; 

Calls from their woodland haunts the savage train 

With sounding horn, and counts them on the plain : 

So once, at Heaven's command, the wanderers came 

To Eden's shade, and heard their various name. 

Far from the world, in yon sequestered clime. 

Slow pass the sons of Wisdom, more sublime : 

Calm as the fields of heaven, his sapient eye 

The loved Athenian lifts to realms on high, — 

Admiring Plato ; on his spotless page 

Stamps the bright dictates of the father sage : 

' Shall Nature bound to earth's diurnal span 

The fire of God, the immortal soul of man ? ' 

Turn, child of Heaven, thy rapture-lightened eye 

To Wisdom's walks, — the sacred Nine are nigh : 

Hark ! from bright spires that gild the Delphian hight, 

From streams that wander in eternal light. 

Ranged on their hill, Harmonia's daughters swell 

The mingling tones of horn and harp and shell ; 

Deep from his vaults the Loxian murmurs flow. 

And Pythia's awful organ peals below. 

Beloved of Heaven ! the smiling Muse shall shed 

Her moonlight halo on thy beauteous head ; 

Shall swell thy heart to rapture unconfined, 

And breathe a holy madness o'er thy mind. 

I see thee roam her guardian power beneath, 

And talk with spirits on the midnight heath ; 

Inquire of guilty wanderers whence they came, 

And ask each blood-stained form his earthly name ; 

Then weave in rapid verse the deeds they tell, 

And read the trembling world the tales of hell. 

When Venus, throned in clouds of rosy hue. 

Flings from her golden urn the vesper-dew, 

And bids fond man her glimmering noon employ, 

Sacred to love, and walks of tender joy, 

A milder mood the goddess shall recall, 

And soft as dew thy tones of music fall ; 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 313 

While Beauty's deeply-pictured smiles impart 

A pang more dear than pleasure to the heart, 

Warm as thy sighs shall iiow the Lesbian strain, 

And plead in Beauty's ear, nor plead in vain. 

Or wilt thou Orphean hymns more sacred deem, 

And steep thy song in Mercy's mellow stream ; 

To pensive drops the radiant eye beguile, 

(For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile;) 

On Nature's throbbing anguish pour relief. 

And teach impassioned souls the joy of grief? 

Yes, to thy tongue shall seraph-words be given, 

And power on earth to plead the cause of heaven : 

The proud, the cold, untroubled heart of stone, 

That never mused on sorrow but its own. 

Unlocks a generous store at thy command, 

Like Horeb's rocks beneath the prophet's hand. 

The living lumber of his kindred earth, 

Charmed into soul, receives a second birth ; 

Feels thy dread power another heart afford. 

Whose passion-touched harmonious strings accord. 

True as the circling spheres, to Nature's plan ; 

And man, the brother, lives the friend of man I 

Bright as the pillar rose at Heaven's command 

When Israel marched along the desert land, 

Blazed through the night on lonely wilds afar, 

And told the path, — a never-setting star : 

So, heavenly Genius, in thy course divine, 

Hope is thy star ; her light is ever thine." 

Propitious Power ! when rankling cares annoy 

The sacred home of hymenean joy ; 

When, doomed to Poverty's sequestered dell, 

The wedded pair of love and virtue dwell, 

Unpitied by the world, unknown to fame. 

Their woes, their wishes, and their hearts the same, — 

Oh, there, prophetic Hope ! thy smile bestow. 

And chase the pangs that worth should never know ; 

There, as the parent deals his scanty store 

To friendless babes, and weeps to give no more, 

Tell, that his manly race shall yet assuage 

Their father's wrongs, and shield his later age. 

What though Tor him no Hybla sweets distill, 

Nor bloomy vines wave purple on the hill : 

Tell, that when silent years have passed away, 

That when his eyes grow dim, his tresses gray. 

These busy hands a lovelier cot shall build, 

And deck with fairer flowers his little field. 

And call from heaven propitious dews to breathe 

Arcadian beauty on the barren heath ; 

Tell, that while Love's spontaneous smile endears 

The days of peace, the sabbath of his years, 

Health shall prolong to many a festive hour 

The social pleasures of his humble bower. 



314 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Lo ! at the coucli where infant beauty sleeps, 

Her silent watch the mournf ul mother keeps ; 

She, while the lovely babe unconscious lies, 

Smiles on her slumbering child Avith pensive eyes^ 

And weaves a song of melancholy joy : — 

" Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy ! 

No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine ; 

No sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine : 

Bright as his manly sire, the son shall be 

In form and soul ; but, ah ! more blest than he, 

Tliy fame, thy worth, thy filial love, at last, 

Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past ; 

With many a smile my solitude repay, * 

And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away. 

And say, when, sunnuoned from the world and theCj 

I lay my head beneath the willow-tree, 

Wilt thou, sweet mourner, at my stone appear. 

And soothe my parted spirit lingering near V 

Oh ! wilt thou come at evening-hour to shed 

The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed ; 

With aching temples on thy hand reclined, 

Muse on the last farewell I leave behind ; 

Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low, 

And think on all my love and all my woe ? " 

So speaks aifection ere the infant eye 

Can look regard, or brighten in reply ; 

But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim 

A mother's ear by that endearing name, 

Soon as the playful innocent can prove 

A tear of pity or a smile of love. 

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care, 

Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer, 

Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear 

The mournful ballad warbled in his ear. 

How fondly looks admiring Hope the while 

At every artless tear and every smile ! 

How glows the joyous parent to descry 

A guileless bosom true to sympathy ! 

Where is the troubled heart, consigned to share 

Tumultuous toils or solitary care, 

Unblest by visionary thoughts that stray 

To count the joys of Fortune's better day? 

Lo ! nature, life, and liberty relume 

The dim-eyed tenant of the dungeon gloom ; 

A long-lost friend, or hapless child restored, 

Smiles at his blazing hearth and social board ; 

Warm from his heart the tears of rapture flow ; 

And virtue triumphs o'er remembered woe. 

Chide not his peace, proud Reason, nor destroy 

The shadowy forms of uncreated joy, 

That urge the lingering tide of life, and pour 

Spontaneous slumber on his midnight-hour. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 315 

Hark ! the wild maniac sin^ijs, to chide the gale 

That watts so slow her lover's distant sail ; 

She, sad spectatress, on the wintry shore 

Watched the rude surge his shroudless corse that bore, 

Knew the pale form, and, shrieking in amaze, 

Clasped her cold hands, and fixed her maddening gaze : 

Poor widowed wretch ! 'twas there she wept in vain 

Till memory fled her agonizing brain ; 

But Mercy gave, to charm the sense of woe, 

Ideal peace that Truth could ne'er bestow : 

Warm on her heart the joys of Fancy beam. 

And aimless Hope delights her darkest dream. 

Oft Avhen yon moon has climbed the midnight sky, 

And the lone sea-bird wakes its wildest cry. 

Piled on the steep, her blazing fagots burn 

To hail the bark that never can return ; 

And still she waits, but scarce forbears to weep 

That constant love can linger on the deep. 

And mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew 

The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue ; 

Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore. 

But found not pity when it erred no more. 

Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye 

The unfeeling proud one looks, and passes by ; 

Condemned on Penury's barren path to roam, 

Scorned by the world, and left without a home, — 

Even he, at evening, should he chance to stray 

Down by the hamlet's hawthorn-scented way, 

Where round the cot's romantic glade are seen 

The blossomed bean-field and the sloping green. 

Leans o'er its humble gate, and thinks the while, — 

" Oh that for me some home like this would smile ; 

Some hamlet shade, to yield my sickly form 

Health in the breeze, and shelter in the storm ! 

There should my hand no stinted boon assign 

To wretched hearts with sorrows such as mine." 

That generous wish can soothe unpitied care ; 

And Hope half mingles with the poor man's prayer. 

Hope ! when I mourn with sympathizing mind 

The wrongs of fate, the woes of human kind. 

Thy blissful omens bid my spirit see 

The boundless fields of rapture yet to be ; 

I watch the wheels of Nature's mazy plan, 

And learn the future by the past of man. 

Come, bright Improvement, on the car of Time ! 

And rule the spacious world from clime to clime ; 

Thy handmaid arts shall every wild explore, 

Trace every wave, and culture every shore. 

On Erie's banks, where tigers steal along. 

And the dread Indian chants a dismal song ; 

Where human fiends on midnight errands walk, 

And bathe in brains the murderous tomahawk, — 



316 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

There shall the flocks on thymy pasture stray, 

And shepherds dance at Summer's opening day : 

Each wandering genius of the lonely glen 

Shall start to view the glittering haunts of men ; 

And silent watch, on woodland hights around, 

The village curfew as it tolls profound. 

In Libyan groves, where damned rites are done, 

That bathe the rocks in blood, and veil the sun, 

Truth shall arrest the murderous arm profane, 

Wild Obi flies, — the veil is rent in twain. 

Where barbarous hordes on Scythian mountains roam, 

Truth, Mercy, Freedom, yet shall find a home ; 

Where'er degraded Nature bleeds and pines, 

From Guinea's coast to Sibir's dreary mines, 

Truth shall pervade the unfathomed darkness there, 

And light the dreadful features of despair. 

Hark ! the stern captive spurns his heavy load, 

And asks the image back that Heaven bestowed : 

Fierce in his eye the fire of valor burns ; 

And, as the slave departs, the man returns. 

O sacred Truth ! thy triumph ceased a while. 

And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile, 

When leagued Oppression poured to northern wars 

Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars. 

Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn. 

Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet-horn : 

Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van, 

Presaging wrath to Poland and to man ! 

Warsaw's last champion from her hight surveyed, 

Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid : 

" O Heaven ! " he cried, " my bleeding country save 1 

Is there no hand on high to shield the brave ? 

Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains, 

Rise, fellow-men ! our country yet remains. 

By that dread name we wave the sword on high, 

And swear for her to live, with her to die." 

He said, and on the rampart-hights arrayed 

His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed : 

Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they farm. 

Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ; 

Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly. 

Revenge, or death, the watchword and reply : 

Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm, 

And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm. 

In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few ! 

From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew : 

Oh ! bloodiest picture in the i30ok of Time, — 

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 

Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe. 

Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe; 

Drop|)od fioin her nerveless grasp the shattered spear. 

Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career : 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 317 

Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell ; 

And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell ! 

The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there ; 

Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air ; 

On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow, 

His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below ; 

The storm prevails, the rampart yields away, 

Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay ! 

Hark ! as the smoldering piles with thunder fall, 

A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call. 

Earth shook ; red meteors flashed along the sky ; 

And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry. 

O righteous Heaven ! ere Freedom found a grave. 

Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save ? 

Where was thine arm, O Vengeance ! where thy rod, 

That smote the foes of Zion and of God ; 

That crushed proud Amnion, when his iron car 

Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar ? 

Where was the storm that slumbered till the host 

Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast ; 

Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow, 

And heaved an ocean on their march below ? 

Departed spirits of the mighty dead, 

Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled, 

Friends of the world ! restore your swords to man. 

Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van ! 

Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone, 

And make her arm puissant as your own ! 

Oh ! once again to Freedom's cause return 

The patriot Tell, the Bruce of Bannockbuen I 

Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see 

That man hath yet a soul, and dare be free. 

A little while, along thy saddening plains, 

The starless night of desolation reigns : 

Truth shall restore the light by Nature given. 

And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of heaven. 

Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled ; 

Her name, her nature, withered from the world. 

Ye that the rising morn invidious mark. 

And hate the light, because your deeds are dark ; 

Ye that expanding truth invidious view, 

And think or wish the song of Hope untrue, — 

Perhaps your little hands presume to span 

The march of genius and the powers of man ; 

Perhaps ye watch at Pride's unhallowed shrine 

Her victims newly slain, and thus divine : — 

" Here shall thy triumph, Genius, cease ; and here 

Truth, Science, Virtue, close your short career." 

Tyrants ! in vain ye trace the wizard ring ; 

In vain ye limit Mind's unwearied spring : 

What ! can ye lull the winged winds asleep, 

Arrest the rolling world, or chain the deep ? 



318 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

No : the wild wave contemns your sceptered hand ; 

It rolled not back when Canute gave command. 

Man, can thy doom no brighter soul allow ? 

Still must thou live a blot on Nature's brow? 

Shall War's polluted banner ne'er be furled ? 

Shall crimes and tyrants cease but with the world ? 

What ! are thy triumphs, sacred Truth, belied ? 

Why, then, hath Plato lived, or Sidney died ? 

Ye fond adorers of departed fame, 

Who warm at Scipio's worth or Tully's name ; 

Ye that in fancied vision can admire 

The sword of Brutus and the Theban lyre ; 

Rapt in historic ardor, who adore 

Each classic haunt and well-remembered shore, 

Where Valor tuned amid her chosen throng 

The Thracian trumpet and the Spartan song ; 

Or, wandering thence, behold the later charms 

Of England's glory and Helvetia's arms, — • 

See Roman fire in Hampden's bosom swell, 

And fate and freedom in the shaft of Tell ! 

Say, ye fond zealots to the worth of yore, 

Hath Valor left the world, to live no more ? 

No more shall Brutus bid a tyrant die. 

And sternly smile with vengeance in his eye ? 

Hampden no more, when suffering Freedom calls, 

Encounter fate, and triumph as he falls ? 

Nor Tell disclose through peril and alarm 

The might that slumbers in a peasant's arm ? 

Yes, in that generous cause for ever strong. 

The patriot's virtue and the poet's song. 

Still, as the tide of ages rolls away, 

Shall charm the world, unconscious of decay. 

Yes, there are hearts, prophetic Hope may trust, 

That slumber yet in uncreated dust, 

Ordained to fire the adoring sons of earth 

With every charm of wisdom and of worth ; 

Ordained to light with intellectual day 

The mazy wheels of Nature as they play ; 

Or, warm with Fancy's energy, to glow, 

And rival all but Shakspeare's name below. 

And say, supernal Powers ! who deeply scan 

Heaven's dark decrees, unfathomed yet by man, 

When shall the world call down, to cleanse her shame. 

That embryo spirit, yet without a name, — 

That friend of Nature, whose avenging hands 

Shall burst the Libyan's adamantine bands ? 

Who, sternly marking on his native soil 

The blood, the tears, the anguish, and the toil, 

Shall bid each righteous heart exult to see 

Peace to the slave, and vengeance on the free ? 

Yet, yet, degraded men ! the expected day 

That breaks your bitter cup is far away ; 



THOMAS CAMPBELL. 319 

Trade, wealtli, and fashion, ask you still to bleed ; 

And holy men give Scripture for the deed. 

Scourged and debased, no Briton stoops to save 

A wretch, a coward ; yes, because a slave ! 

Eternal Nature ! when thy giant hand 

Had heaved the floods, and fixed the trembling land ; 

When Life sprang startling at thy plastic call, 

Endless her forms, and man the lord of all, — 

Say, was that lordly form inspired by thee 

To wear eternal chains, and bow the knee ? 

Was man ordained the slave of man to toil, 

Yoked with the brutes, and fettered to the soil ; 

Weighed in a tyrant's balance with his gold ? 

No ! Nature stamped us in a heavenly mold : 

She bade no wretch his thankless labor urge, 

Nor, trembling, take the pittance and the scourge ; 

No homeless Libyan on the stormy deep 

To call upon his country's name, and weep. 

Lo ! once in triumph on his boundless plain 

The quivered chief of Congo loved to reign ; 

With fires proportioned to his native sky, 

Strength in his arm, and lightning in his eye ; 

Scoured with wild feet his sun-illumined zone, 

The spear, the lion, and the woods his own ; 

Or led the combat, bold without a plan, 

An artless savage, but a fearless man. 

The plunderer came. Alas ! no glory smiles 

For Congo's chief on yonder Lidian isles ; 

For ever fallen ! no son of Nature now. 

With Freedom chartered on his manly brow ! 

Faint, bleeding, bound, he weeps the night away, 

And, when the sea-wind wafts the dewless day. 

Starts, with a bursting heart, for ever more 

To curse the sun that lights their guilty shore. 

The shrill horn blew : at that alarum-knell 

His guardian angel took a last farewell. 

That funeral dirge to darkness hath resigned 

The fiery grandeur of a generous mind. 

Poor fettered man ! I hear thee whispering low 

Unhallowed vows to Guilt, the child of Woe. 

Friendless thy heart ; and canst thou harbor there 

A wish but death, a passion but despair ? 

The widowed Indian, when her lord expires. 

Mounts the dread pile, and braves the funeral-fires : 

So falls the heart at Thralldom's bitter sigh ! 

So Virtue dies, the spouse of Liberty ! 

But not to Libya's barren climes alone, 

To Chili, or the Avild Siberian zone. 

Belong the wretched heart and haggard eye, 

Degraded worth, and poor misfortune's sigh. 

Ye Orient realms where Ganges' waters run, 

Prolific fields, dominions of the sun, 



320 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

How long your tribes have trembled, and obeyed I 

How long was Timur's iron scepter swayed, 

Whose marshaled hosts, the lions of the plain, 

From Scythia's northern mountains to the main 

Raged o'er your plundered shrines and altars bare 

With blazing torch and gory cimeter ; 

Stunned with the cries of death each gentle gale, 

And bathed in blood the verdure of the vale ! 

Yet could no pangs the immortal spirit tame 

When Brahma's children perished for his name : 

The martyr smiled beneath avenging power, 

And braved the tyrant in his torturing hour. 

When Europe sought your subject realms to gain, 

And stretched her giant scepter o'er the main, 

Taught her proud barks their winding way to shape, 

And braved the stormy spirit of the Cape, — 

Children of Brahma ! then was Mercy nigh 

To wash the stain of blood's eternal dye ? 

Did Peace descend to triumph and to save 

When free-born Britons crossed the Indian wave ? 

Ah, no ! to more than Rome's ambition true, 

The nurse of Freedom gave it not to you : 

She the bold route of Europe's guilt began, 

And in the march of nations led the van. 

Rich in the gems of India's gaudy zone, 

And plunder piled from kingdoms not their own. 

Degenerate Trade ! thy minions could despise 

The heart-born anguish of a thousand cries ; 

Could lock with impious hands their teeming store. 

While famished nations died along the shore ; 

Could mock the groans of fellow-men, and bear 

The curse of kingdoms peopled with despair ; 

Could stamp disgrace on man's polluted name, 

And barter with their gold eternal shame ! 

But, hark ! as bowed to earth the Brahmin kneels, 

From heavenly climes propitious thunder peals ! 

Of India's fate her guardian spirits tell, 

Prophetic murmurs breathing on the shell ; 

And solemn sounds, that awe the listening mind, 

Roll on the azure paths of every wind. 

" Foes of mankind," her guardian spirits say, 

" Revolving ages bring the bitter day 

When Heaven's unerring arm shall fall on you. 

And blood for blood these Indian plains bedew : 

Nine times have Brahma's wheels of lightning hurled 

His awful presence o'er the alarmed world ; 

Nine times hath Guilt, through all his giant frame, 

Convulsive trembled as the Mighty came ; 

Nine times hath suffering Mercy spared in vain ; 

But Heaven shall burst her starry gates again. 

He comes ! dread Brama shakes the sunless sky 

With murmuring wrath, and thunders from on high 1 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 321 

Heaven's fiery horse, beneath his warrior form, 
Paws the light clouds, and gallops on the storm ! 
Wide waves his flickering sword ; his bright arms glow 
Like summer suns, and light the world below : 
Earth and her trembling isles in Ocean's bed 
Are shook, and Nature rocks beneath his tread I 
To pour redress on India's injured realm, 
The oppressor to dethrone, the proud to whelm ; 
To chase destruction from her plundered shore 
With arts and arms that triumphed once before, — 
The tenth Avatar comes ! at Heaven's command 
Shall Seriswattee wave her hallowed wand ; 
And Camdeo bright, and Ganesa sublime. 
Shall bless with joy their own propitious clime. 
Come, Heavenly Powers ! primeval peace restore ! 
Love, Mercy, Wisdom, rule ibr ever more 1 " 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 

1800-1859. 

The most celebrated English essayist and historian of the nineteenth centnry. 
As a descriptive poet, his "Lays of Ancient Rome," written in the ballad style, and 
celebrating events in the early history of Rome, give him a permanent place in the 
literature of the language. The first and second volumes of " The History of Eng- 
land " were published in 1849; the third and fourth, in 1855; and a fifth, after his 
death, made up from unfinished manuscripts, in 1861. All his writings are no less 
remarkable for brilliancy of style than for the profound learning they display. 



THE PROPHECY OF CAPYS. 

A LAY SUNG IN THE YEAR OF THE CITY 479. 
1. 

Now slain is King Amulius, 

Of the great Sylvian line. 
Who reigned in Alba Longa, 

On the throne of Aventine. 
Slain is the Pontiff Gamers, 

Who spake the words of doom : 
« The children to the Tiber ; 

The mother to the tomb ! " 

2. 

In Alba's lake no fisher 
His net to-day is flinging ; 

On the dark rind of Alba's oaks 
To-day no axe is ringing : 
21 



322 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 

The yoke hangs o'er the manger ; 

The scythe lies in the hay : 
Through all the Alban villages 

No work is done to-day. 

3. 

And every Alban burgher 

Hath donned his whitest gown ; 
And every head in Alba 

Weareth a poplar crown ; 
And every Alban door-post 

With boughs and flowers is gay : 
For to-day the dead are living ; 

The lost are found to-day. 



They were doomed by a bloody king ; 

They were doomed by a lying priest ; 
They were cast on the raging flood ; 

They were tracked by the raging beast : 
Raging beast and raging flood 

Alike have spared the prey ; 
And to-day the dead are living ; 

The lost are found to-day. 

5. 

The troubled river knew them, 

And smoothed his yellow foam, 
And gently rocked the cradle 

That bore the fate of Rome ; 
The ravening she -wolf knew them, 

And licked them o'er and o'er, 
And gave them of her own fierce milk, 

Rich with raw flesh and gore. 
Twenty winters, twenty springs, 

Since then have rolled away : 
And to-day the dead are living ; 

The lost are found to-day. 



Blithe it was to see the twins, 

Right goodly youths and tall, 
Marching from Alba Longa 

To their old grandsire's hall. 
Along their path fresh garlands 

Are hung from tree to tree ; 
Before them stride the pipers, 

Piping a note of glee. 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 323 



7. 



On the right goes Romulus, 

With arms to the elbows red ; 
And in his hand a broadsword, 

And on the blade a head, — 
A head in an iron helmet, 

With horse-hair hanging down,- 
A shaggy head, a swarthy head, 

Fixed in a ghastly frown, — 
The head of King Amulius, 

Of the great Sylvian line, 
Who reigned in Alba Longa, 

On the throne of Aventine. 



8. 

On the left side goes Remus, 

With wrists and fingers red ; 
And in his hand a boar-spear, 

And on the point a head, ■ — 
A wrinkled head and aged. 

With silver beard and hair. 
And holy fillets round it, 

Such as the pontiffs wear, — 
The head of ancient Gamers, 

Who spake the words of doom : 
« The children to the Tiber ; 

The mother to the tomb ! " 



9. 

Two and two behind the twins 

Their trusty comrades go, — 
Four and forty valiant men, 

With club and ax and bow. 
On each side, every hamlet 

Pours forth its joyous crowd, — 
Shouting lads and baying dogs, 

And children laughing loud, 
And old men weeping fondly 

As Rhea's boys go by. 
And maids who shriek to see the heads, 

Yet, shrieking, press more nigh. 



10. 

So they marched along the lake : 
They marched by fold and stall, 

By cornfield and by vineya^i. 
Unto the old man's hall. 



324 ENGLISH LITEBATUBE. 



11. 

In the hall-gate sate Capys, — 

Capys, the sightless seer : 
From head to foot he trembled 

As Romulus drew near. 
And up stood stiff his thin white hair ; 

And his blind eyes flashed fire : 
" Hail ! foster-child of the wondrous nurse ! 

Hail ! son of the wondrous sire I 

12. 

*' But thou — what dost thou here 

In the old man's peaceful hall ? 
What doth the eagle in the coop ? 

The bison in the stall ? 
Our corn fills many a garner ; 

Our vines clasp many a tree ; 
Our flocks are white on many a hill : 

But these are not for thee. 

13. 

" For thee no treasure ripens 

In the Tartessian mine ; 
For thee no ship brings precious bales 

Across the Libyan brine : 
Thou shalt not drink from Amber ; 

Tliou shalt not rest on down ; 
Arabia shall not steep thy locks, 

Nor Sidon tinge thy gown. 

14. 

" Leave gold and myrrh and jewels, 

Rich table and soft bed, 
To them who of man's seed are born. 

Whom woman's milk has fed. 
Thou wast not made for lucre, 

For pleasure, nor for rest, — 
Thou that art sprung from the War-God's loins, 

And hast tugged at the she-wolf's breast. 

15. 

" From sunrise unto sunset, 

All earth shall hear thy fame : 
A glorious city thou shalt build, 

And name it by thy name ; 
And there, unquenched through ages, 

Like Vesta's sacred fire, 
Shall live the spirit of thy nurse, 

The spirit of thy sire. 



_l 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 325 



16. 

" The ox toils through the furrow, 

Obedient to the goad ; 
The patient ass, up flinty paths, 

Plods with his weary load ; 
With whine and bound, the spaniel 

His master's whistle hears ; 
And the sheep yields her patiently 

To the loud-clashing shears. 

17. 

" But thy nurse will hear no master, 

Thy nurse will bear no load ; 
And woe to them that shear her 1 

And woe to them that goad ! 
When all the pack, loud baying, 

Her bloody lair surrounds, 
She dies in silence, biting hard 

Amidst the dying hounds. 

18. 

" Pomona loves the orchard ; 

And Liber loves the vine ; 
And Pales loves the straw-built shed 

Warm with the breath of kine ; 
And Venus loves the whispers 

Of plighted youth and maid, 
In April's ivory moonlight 

Beneath the chestnut-shade. 

19. 

" But thy father loves the clashing 

Of broadsword and of shield ; 
He loves to drink the steam that reeks 

From the fresh battle-field : 
He smiles a smile more dreadful 

Than his own dreadful frown 
When he sees the thick black cloud of smoke 

Go up from the conquered town. 

20. 

" And such as is the War-God, 

The author of thy line ; 
And such as she w^ho suckled thee, — 

Even such be thou and thine. 
Leave to the soft Campanian 

His baths and his perfumes ; 
Leave to the sordid race of Tyre 

Their dyeing-vats and looms ; 



326 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Leave to the sons of Carthage 
The rudder and the oar ; 

Leave to the Greek his marble nymphs, 
And scrolls of wordy lore. 

21. 

" Thine, Koman, is the pilum ; 

Roman, the sword is thine. 
The even trench, the bristling mound, 

The legion's ordered line; 
And thine the wheels of triumph, 

Which, with their laureled train. 
Move slowly up the shouting streets 

To Jove's eternal fane. 

22. 

" Beneath thy yoke, the Volscian 

Shall veil his lofty brow ; 
Soft Capua's curled revelers 

Before thy chairs shall bow ; 
The Lucumoes of Arnus 

Shall quake thy rods to see ; 
And the proud Samnite's heart of steel 

Shall yield to only thee. 

23. 

" The Gaul shall come against thee 
From the land of snow and night : 

Thou shalt give his fair-haired armies 
To the raven and the kite. 

24. 

" The Greek shall come against thee, 

The conqueror of the East : 
Beside him stalks to battle 

The huge, earth-shaking beast, — 
The beast on whom the castle 

With all its guards doth stand, — 
The beast who hath between his eyes 

The serpent for a hand. 
First march the bold Epirotes, 

Wedged close with shield and spear ; 
And the ranks of false Tarentum 

Are glittering in the rear. 

25. 

" The ranks of false Tarentum 
Like hunted sheep shall fly ; 

In vain the bold Epirotes 

Shall round their standards die ; 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 327 

And Apennine's gray vultures 

Shall have a noble feast 
On the fat and the eyes 

Of the huge earth-shaking beast. 

26. 

*' Hurrah for the good weapons 

That keep the War-God's land ! 
Hurrah for Rome's stout pilum 

In a stout Roman hand ! 
Hurrah for Rome's short broadsword, 

That through the thick array 
Of leveled spears and serried shields 

Hews deep its gory way ! 



27. 

" Hurrah for the great triumph 

That stretches many a mile I 
Hurrah for the wan captives 

That pass in endless file ! 
Ho ! bold Epirotes, Avhither 

Hath the Red King ta'en flight? 
Ho ! dogs of false Tarentura, 

Is not the gown washed white ? 



28. 

** Hurrah for the great triumph 

That stretches many a mile ! 
Hurrah for the rich dye of Tyre, 

And the fine web of Nile, 
The helmets gay with plumage 

Torn from the pheasant's wings, 
The belts set thick with starry gems 

That shone on Indian kings, 
The urns of massy silver, 

The goblets rough with gold, 
The many-colored tablets bright 

With loves and wars of old, 
The stone that breathes and struggles, 

The brass that seems to speak ! — 
Such cunning they who dwell on high 

Have given unto the Greek. 



29. 



" Hurrah for Manius Curius, 
The bravest son of Rome, 

Thrice in utmost need sent forth. 
Thrice drawn in triumph home I 



328 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Weave, weave, for Manius Curius 

The third embroidered gown ; 
Make ready the third lofty car ; 

And twine the third green crown ; 
And yoke the steeds of Rosea 

With necks like a bended bow ; 
And deck the bull, Mevania's bull, — 

The bull as white as snow. 

30. 

" Blest and thrice blest the Roman 

Who sees Rome's brightest day ; 
Who sees that long victorious pomp 

Wind down the Sacred Way, 
And through the bellowing Forum, 

And round the Suppliant's Grove, 
Up to the everlasting gates 

Of Capitolian Jove. 

31. 

" Then where, o'er two bright havens, 

The towers of Corinth frown ; 
Where the gigantic King of Day 

On his own Rhodes looks down ; 
Where soft Orontes murmurs 

Beneath the laurel shades ; 
Where Nile reflects the endless length 

Of dark-red colonnades ; 
Where, in the still, deep water, 

Sheltered from waves and blasts, 
Bristles the dusky forest 

Of Byrsa's thousand masts ; 
Where fur-clad hunters wander 

Amidst the northern ice ; 
Where through the sand of morning-land 

The camel bears the spice ; 
Where Atlas flings his shadow 

Far o'er the western foam, — 
Shall be great fear on all who hear 

The mighty name of Rome." 



MILTON. 

It is by his poetry that Milton is best known ; and it is of his 
poetry that we wish first to speak. By the general suffrage of 
the civilized world, his place has been assigned among the great- 
est masters of the art. His detractors, however, though out- 
voted, have not been silenced. There are many critics, and some 
of great name, who contrive in the same breath to extol the 



THOMAS BABTKGTON MACAUT.AY. 329 

poems and to decry the poet. The works, they acknowledge, con- 
sidered in themselves, may be classed among the noblest produc- 
tions of the human mind ; but they will not allow the author to 
rank with those great men, who, born in the infancy of civiliza- 
tion, supplied by their own powers the want of instruction, and, 
though destitute of models themselves, bequeathed to posterity 
models which defy imitation. Milton, it is said, inherited what 
his predecessors created; he lived in an enlightened age; he 
received a finished education ; and we must, therefore, if we would 
form a just estimate of his powers, make large deductions for 
these advantages. 

AVe venture to say, on the contrary, paradoxical as the remark 
may appear, that no poet has ever had to struggle with more un- 
favorable circumstances than Milton. He doubted, as he has him- 
self owned, whether he had not been born " an age too late." For 
this notion, Johnson has thought fit to make him the butt" of his 
clumsy ridicule. The poet, we believe, understood the nature of 
his art better than the critic. He knew that his poetical genius 
derived no advantage from the civilization which surrounded him, 
or from the learning which he had acquired ; and he looked back 
with something like regret to the ruder age of simple words and 
vivid impressions. 

We think, that, as civilization advances, poetry almost necessa- 
rily declines. Therefore, though we admire those great works of 
imagination which have appeared in dark ages, we do not admire 
them the more because they have appeared in dark ages. On the 
contrary, we hold that the most wonderful and splendid proof of 
genius is a great poem produced in a civilized age. We can not 
understand why those who believe in that most orthodox article 
of literary faith, that the earliest poets are generally the best, 
should wonder at the rule as if it were the exception. Surely the 
uniformity of the phenomenon indicates a corresponding uniformi- 
ty in the cause. 

The fact is, that common observers reason from the progress of 
the experimental sciences to that of tlie imitative arts. The im- 
provement of the former is gradual and slow. Ages are spent in 
collecting materials ; ages more in separating and combining them. 
Even when a system has been formed, there is still something to 
add, to. alter, or to reject. Every generation enjoys the use of a 
vast hoard bequeathed to it by antiquity, and transmits it, aug- 
mented by fresh acquisitions, to future ages. In these pursuits, 
therefore, the first speculators lie under great disadvantages, and, 
even when they fail, are entitled to praise. Their pupils, with far 
inferior intellectual powers, speedily surpass them in actual attain- 
ments. Every girl who has read Mrs. Marcet's " Little Dialogues 
on Political Economy " could teach Montague or Walpole many 



330 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

lessons in finance. Any intelligent man may now, by resolutely 
applying himself for a few years to mathematics, learn more than 
the great Newton knew after half a century of study and medi- 
tation. 

But it is not thus with music, with painting, or with sculpture : 
still less is it thus with poetry. The progress of refinement 
rarely supplies these arts with better objects of imitation. It may, 
indeed, improve the instruments which are necessary to the me- 
chanical operations of the musician, the sculptor, and the painter ; 
but language, the machine of the poet, is best fitted for his pur- 
pose in its rudest state. Nations, like individuals, first perceive, 
and then abstract. They advance from particular images to gen- 
eral terms. Hence the vocabulary of an enlightened society is 
philosophical : that of a half-civilized people is poetical. 

This change in the language of men is partly the cause, and 
partly the eifect, of a corresponding change in the nature of their 
intellectual operations, — a change by which science gains, and poet- 
ry loses. Generalization is necessarj?^ to the advancement of knowl- 
edge, but particularly in the creations of the imagination. In pro- 
portion as men know more, and think more, they look less at indi- 
viduals, and more at classes. They therefore make better theories, 
and worse poems. They give us vague phrases instead of images, 
and personified qualities instead of men. They may be better 
able to analyze human nature than their predecessors ; but analy- 
sis is not the business of the poet. His office is to portray, not 
to dissect. He may believe in a moral sense, like Shaftesbury ; 
he may refer all human actions to self-interest, like Helvetius ; or 
he may never think about the matter at all. His creed on such 
subjects will no more influence his poetry, properly so called, than 
the notions which a painter may have conceived respecting the 
lachrymal glands, or the circulation of the blood, will affect the 
tears of his Niobe, or the blushes of his Aurora. If Shakspeare 
had written a book on the motives of human actions, it is by no 
means certain that it would have been a good one. It is 
extremely improbable that it would have contained half so much 
able reasoning on the subject as is to be found in the "Fable of 
the Bees." But could Mandeville have created an lago ? Well 
as he knew how to resolve characters into their elements, would he 
have been able to combine those elements in such a manner as to 
make up a man, — a real, living, individual man? 

Perhaps no man can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without 
a certain unsoundness of mind, if any thing which gives so much 
pleasure ought to be called unsoundness. By poetry, we mean, 
not, of course, all writing in verse, nor even all good writing in 
verse. Our definition excludes many metrical compositions, which 
on other grounds deserve the highest praise. By poetry, we 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 331 

mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce 
an ilhision on the imagination, — the art of doing by means of 
words what the painter does by means of colors. Thus the 
greatest of poets has described it in lines universally admired for the 
vigor and felicity of their diction, and still more valuable on ac- 
count of the just notion which they convey of the art in which 
he excelled : — 

" As imagination bodies forth 
Tlie forms of things unknown, the poet's pen 
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing 
A local habitation and a name." 

These are the fruits of the " fine frenzy" which he ascribes to the 
poet, — a fine frenzj'- doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth, indeed, 
is essential to poetry ; but it is the truth of madness. The rea- 
sonings are just ; but the premises are false. After the first sup- 
positions have been made, every thing ought to be consistent ; but 
those first suppositions require a degree of credulity which almost 
amounts to a partial and temporary derangement of the intellect. 
Hence, of all people, children are the most imaginative. They 
abandon themselves, without reserve, to every illusion. Every 
image which is strongly presented to their mental eye produces 
on them the effect of reality. No man, whatever his sensibility 
may be, is ever affected by Hamlet or Lear as a little girl is 
affected by the story of poor Eed Riding-Hood. She knows that 
it is all false, that wolves can not speak, that there are no wolves 
in England : yet, in spite of her knowledge, she believes ; she 
weeps ; she trembles ; she dares not go into a dark room, lest she 
should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. Such is the 
despotism of the imagination over uncultivated minds. In a rude 
state of society, men are children with a greater variety of ideas. 
It is, therefore, in such a state of society, that we may expect 
to find the poetical temperament in its highest perfection. In an 
enlightened age, there will be much intelligence, much science, 
much philosophy, abundance of just classification and subtle analy- 
sis, abundance of wit and eloquence, abundance of verses, and 
even of good ones, but little poetry. Men will judge and com- 
pare ; but they will not create. They will talk about the old 
poets, and comment on them, and to a certain degree enjoy them ; 
but they will scarcely be able to conceive the effect which poetry 
produced on their ruder ancestors, — the agonj'-, the ecstasy, the 
plenitude of belief. The Greek rhapsodists, according to Plato, 
could not recite Homer without almost falling into convulsions. 
The Mohawk hardly feels the scalping-knife while he shouts his 
death-song. The power which the ancient bards of Wales and 
Germany exercised over their auditors seems to modern readers 
almost miraculous. Such feelings are very rare in a civilized 



332 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

community, and most rare among those who participate most in 
its improvements. They linger longest among the peasantry. 

Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind as a magic- 
lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the body. And, as the 
magic-lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects its purpose 
most completely in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks 
in upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty become more 
and more definite, and the shades of probability more and more 
distinct, the hues and lineaments of the phantoms which it calls 
up grow fainter and fainter. We can not unite the incom- 
patible advantages of reality and deception, the clear discernment 
of truth, and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. He who, in an 
enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a great poet, must 
first become a little child. He must take to pieces the whole web 
of his mind. He must unlearn much of that knowledge which 
has perhaps constituted hitherto his chief title of superiority. 
His very talents will be a hinderance to him. His difficulties 
will be proportioned to his proficienc^T- in the pursuits which are 
fashionable among his contempotaries ; and that proficiency will, 
in general, be proportioned to the vigor and activity of his mind. 
And it is well, if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, his works 
do not resemble a lisping man or a modern ruin. We have seen 
in our own time great talents, intense labor, and long meditation, 
emploj^ed in this struggle against the spirit of the age, and em- 
ployed, we will not say absolutely in vain, but with dubious suc- 
cess and feeble applause. If these reasonings be just, no poet has 
ever triumplied over greater difficulties than Milton. He received 
a learned education ; he was a profound and elegant classical 
scholar ; he had studied all the mj^steries of rabbinical literature ; 
he was intimately acquainted with every language of modern 
Europe from which either pleasure or information was then to be 
derived. He was, perhaps, the only great poet of later times who 
had been distinguished by the excellence of his Latin verse. The 
genius of Petrarch was scarcely of the first order ; and his poems 
in the ancient language, though much praised by those who have 
never read them, are wretched compositions. Cowley, with all his 
admirable wit and ingenuity, had little imagination; nor, indeed, 
do we think his classical diction comparable to that of Milton. 
The authority of Johnson is against us on this point. But John- 
son had studied the bad writers of the middle ages till he had 
become utterly insensible to the Augustan elegance, and was as ill 
qualified to judge between two Latin styles as an habitual drunk- 
ard to set up for a wine-taster. Versification in a dead language 
is an exotic ; a far-fetched, costly, sickly imitation of that which 
elsewhere may be found in healthful and spontaneous perfection. 
The soils on which this rarity flourishes are in general as ill 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 333 

suited to the production of vigorous native poetry as the flower- 
pots of a hot-house to the growth of oaks. That the author of 
"The Paradise Lost " should have written the " Epistle to Manso " 
was truly wonderful. Never before were such marked originality 
and such exquisite mimicry found together. Indeed, in all the 
Latin poems of Milton, the artificial manner indispensable to such 
works is admirably preserved ; while at the same time the rich- 
ness of his fancy, and the elevation of his sentiments, give to 
til em a peculiar charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, which 
distinguishes them from all other writings of the same class. 
They remind us of the amusements of those angelic warriors who 
composed the cohort of Gabriel : — 

" About him exercised heroic games 
The unarmed youth of heaven. But o'er their heads 
Celestial armory, shield, helm, and spear, 
Hung bright, with diamond flaming and with gold." 

We can not look upon the sportive exercises for which the 
genius of Milton ungirds itself, without catching a glimpse of the 
gorgeous and terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear. 
The strength of his imagination triumphed over every obstacle. 
So intense and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only 
was not suffocated beneath the weight of its fuel, but penetrated 
the whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance. 

It is not our intention to attempt any thing like a complete 
examination of the poetry of Milton. The public has long been 
agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the 
incomparable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that 
style which no rival has been able to equal, and no parodist to 
degrade ; which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic 
powers of the English tongue ; and to which every ancient and 
every modern language has contributed something of grace, of 
energy, or of music. In the vast field of criticism m which we 
are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles ; 
yet the harvest is so abundant, that the negligent search of a 
straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. 

The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the 
extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts 
on the reader. Its effect is produced, not so much by what it 
expresses, as by what it suggests ; not so much by the ideas 
which it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are connected 
with them. He electrifies the mind through conductors. The 
most unimaginative man must understand the Iliad. Homer gives 
him no choice, and requires from him no exertion, but takes the 
whole upon himself, and sets his images in so clear a light, that it 
is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton can not 
be comprehended or enjoyed unless the mind of the reader co- 



334 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

operate with that of the writer. He does not paint a finished 
picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and 
leaves others to fill up the outline. He strikes the keynote, and 
expects his hearer to make out the melody. 

We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. The ex- 
pression, in general, means nothing; but, applied to the writings 
of Milton, it is most appropriate. His poetry acts like an 
incantation. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than 
in its occult power. There would seem, at first sight, to be 
no more in his words than in other words; but they are 
words of enchantment : no sooner are they pron'ounced than 
the past is present, and the distant near. New forms of 
beauty start at once into existence ; and all the burial-places 
of the memory give up their dead. Change the structure 
of the sentence, substitute one synonym for another, and the 
whole eifect is destroyed. The spell loses its power; and he who 
should then hope to conjure with it would find himself as much 
mistaken as Cassim in the Arabian tale, when he stood crying, 
" Open, Wheat ! " " Open, Barley ! " to the door which obeyed no 
sound but " Open, Sesame ! " The miserable failure of Dryden 
in his attempt to rewrite some parts of the " Paradise Lost " is a 
remarkable instance of this. 

In support of these observations, we may remark, that scarcely 
any passages in the poems of Milton are more generally known, 
or more frequently repeated, than those which are little more 
than muster-rolls of names. They are not always more appro- 
priate or more melodious than other names ; but they are 
charmed names. Every one of them is the first link in a long 
chain of associated ideas. Like the dwelling-place of our in- 
fancy revisited in manhood, like the song of our country heard in 
a strange land, they produce upon us an effect wholly independent 
of their intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote 
period of history; another places us among the moral scenery 
and manners of a distant country; a third evokes all the dear 
classical recollections of childhood, — the schoolroom, the dog- 
eared " Virgil," the holiday, and the prize ; a fourth brings before 
us the splendid phantoms of chivalrous romance, the trophied 
lists, the embroidered housings, the quaint devices, the haunted 
forests, the enchanted gardens, the achievements of enamored 
knights, and the smiles of rescued princesses. In none of the 
works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily displayed 
than in the " Allegro " and the " Penseroso." It is impossible to 
conceive tliat the mechanism of language can be brought to a more 
exquisite degree of perfection. These poems differ from others 
as attar of roses differs from ordinary rose-water, the close-packed 
essence from the thin diluted mixture. They are, indeed, not so 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 835 

much poems as collections of hints, from each of which the reader 
is to make out a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a 
canto. The " Comus " and the " Samson Agonistes " are works, 
which, though of very different merit, offer some marked points 
of resemblance. They are both lyric poems in the form of plays. 
There are, perhaps, no two kinds of composition so essentially 
dissimilar as the drama and the ode. The business of the drama- 
tist is to keep himself out of sight, and to let nothing appear but 
his characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his personal 
feelings, the illusion is broken : the effect is as unpleasant as 
that which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter 
or the entrance of a scene-shifter. Hence it was that the trage- 
dies of Byron were his least successful performances. They 
resemble those pasteboard pictures invented by the friend of 
children, Mr. Newberry, in which a single movable head goes 
around twenty different bodies ; so that the same face looks out 
upon us successively from the uniform of a hussar, the furs of a 
judge, and the rags of a beggar. In all the characters, — patriots 
and tyrants, haters and lovers, — the frown and sneer of Harold 
were discernible in an instant. But this species of egotism, 
though fatal to the drama, is the inspiration of the ode. It is the 
part of the lyric poet to abandon himself, without reserve, to his 
own emotions. Between these hostile elements, many great men 
have endeavored to effect an amalgamation, but never with com- 
plete success. The Greek drama, on the model of which the 
" Samson " was written, sprung from the ode. The dialogue was 
ingrafted on the chorus, and naturally partook of its character. 
The genius of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists co-operated 
with the circumstances under which tragedy made its first appear- 
ance, ^schylus was, head and heart, a lyric poet. In his time, 
the Greeks had far more intercourse with the East than in the 
days of Homer ; and they had not yet acquired that immense 
superiority in war, in science, and in the arts, which, in the fol- 
lowing generation, led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. 
From the narrative of Herodotus, it Avould seem that they still 
looked up with the veneration of disciples to Egypt and Assyria. 
At this period, accordingly, it was natural that the literature of 
Greece should be tinctured with the Oriental style ; and that 
style, we think, is clearly discernible in the works of Pindar and 
^schylus. The latter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. 
The Book of Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a consider- 
able resemblance to some of his dramas. Considered as plays, 
his works are absurd ; considered as choruses, the}'- are above all 
praise. If, for instance, we examine the address of Clytemnestra 
to Agamemnon on his return, or the description of the seven 
Argive chiefs, by the principles of dramatic writing, we shall 



336 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

instantly condemn them as monstrous; but if we forget the 
characters, and think only of the poetry, we shall admit that it 
lias never been surpassed in energ}'- and magnificence. Sophocles 
made the Greek drama as dramatic as was consistent with its 
original form. His portraits of men have a sort of similarity ; but 
it is the similarity, not of a painting, but of a bass-relief. It sug- 
gests a resemblance j but it does not produce an illusion. Euripides 
attempted to carry the reform farther ; but it was a task far 
beyond his powers, — perhaps beyond any powers. Instead of 
correcting what was bad, he destroyed what was excellent. He 
substituted crutches for stilts, bad sermons for good odes. 

Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly ; much more 
highly than, in our opinion, he deserved. Indeed, the caresses 
which this partiality leads him to bestow on " sad Electra's poet " 
sometimes reminds us of the beautiful Queen of Fairyland 
kissing the long ears of Bottom. At all events, there can be no 
doubt that this veneration for the Athenian, whether just or not, 
was injurious to the " Samson Agonistes." Had he taken ^schy- 
lus for his model, he would have given himself up to the lyric 
inspiration, and poured out profusely all the treasures of his mind, 
without bestowing a thought on those dramatic proprieties which 
the nature of the work rendered it impossible to preserve. In 
the attempt to reconcile things in their own nature inconsistent, 
he has failed, as every one must have failed. We can not identify 
ourselves with the characters, as in a good play. We can not 
identify ourselves with the poet, as in a good ode. The conflicting 
ingredients, like an acid and an alkali mixed, neutralize each 
other. We are by no means insensible to the merits of this cele- 
brated piece; to the severe dignity of the style, the graceful and 
pathetic solemnity of the opening speech, or the wild and barbaric 
melody which gives so striking an effect to the choral passages: 
but we think it, we confess, the least successful effort of the genius 
of Milton. 

The " Comus " is framed on the model of the Italian masque, 
as the " Samson " is framed on the model of the Greek tragedy. 
It is, certainly, the noblest performance of the kind which exists 
in any language. It is as far superior to the ^' Faithful Shep- 
herdess," as the " Faithful Shepherdess " is to the '' Aminta," or 
the " Aminta " to the '' Pastor Fido." It was well for Milton that 
he had here no Euripides to mislead him. He understood and 
loved the literature of modern Italy ; but he did not feel for it 
the same veneration which he entertained for the remains of 
Athenian and Roman poetry, consecrated by so many lofty and 
endearing recollections. The faults, moreover, of his Italian prede- 
cessors, were of a kind to which his mind had a deadly antipathy. 
He could stoop to a plain style, sometimes even to a bald style ; 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 33T 

but false brilliancy was his utter aversion. His Muse had no 
objection to a russet attire; but she turned with disgust from 
the finery of Guarini, as tawdry and as paltry as the rags of a 
chimney-sweeper on May Day. Whatever ornaments she wears 
are of massive gold, not only dazzling to the sight, but capable of 
standing the severest test of the crucible. 

Milton attended in the " Comus " to the distinction which he 
neglected in the " Samson." He made it what it ought to be, — 
essentially lyrical, and dramatic only in semblance. He has not 
attempted a fruitless struggle against a defect inherent in the 
nature of that species of composition ; and he has, therefore, suc- 
ceeded wherever success was not impossible. The speeches must 
be read as majestic soliloquies ; and he who so reads them will be 
enraptured with their eloquence, their sublimity, and their music. 
The interruptions of the dialogue, however, impose a constraint 
upon the writer, and break the illusion of the reader. The finest 
passages are those which are lyric in form as well as in spirit. 
" I should much commend," says the excellent Sir Henry Wotton 
in a letter to Milton, " the tragical part, if the lyrical did not rav- 
ish me with a certain Doric delicacy in your songs and odes; 
whereunto, I most plainly confess to you, I have seen yet nothing 
parallel in our language." The criticism was just. It is when 
Milton escapes from the shackles of the dialogue, when he is dis- 
charged from the labor of uniting two incongruous styles, when 
he is at liberty to indulge his choral raptures without reserve, that 
he rises even above himself. Then, like his own Good Genius, 
bursting from the earthly form and weeds of Thyrsis, he stands 
forth in celestial freedom and beauty: he seems to cry exultingly, — 

" Now ray task is smoothly done, 
I can fly, or I can run," 

to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe in the Elysian 
dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of nard and 
cassia which the musky winds of the zephyr scatter through the 
cedared alleys of the Hesperides. There are several of the minor 
poems of Milton on which we would willingly make a few remarks. 
Still more willingly would we enter into a detailed examination 
of that admirable poem, the " Paradise Regained," which, strangely 
enough, is scarcely ever mentioned, except as an instance of the 
blindness of that parental affection which men of letters bear 
toward the offspring of their intellects. That Milton was mis- 
taken in preferring this work, excellent as it is, to the ^' Paradise 
Lost," we must readily admit ; but we are sure that the superiority 
of the "Paradise Lost" to the " Paradise Regained" is not more 
decided than the superiority of the " Paradise Rep^ained " to every 
poem which has since made its appearance. But our limits prevent 



338 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

US from discussing the point at length. We hasten on to that ex- 
traordinary production which the general suffrage of critics has 
placed in the highest class of human compositions. The only poem 
of modern times which can be compared with the " Paradise Lost " 
is the " Divine Comedy." The subject of Milton, in some points, 
resembled that of Dante ; but he has treated it in a widely differ- 
ent manner. We can not, we think, better illustrate our opinion 
respecting our own great poet than by contrasting him with the 
father of Tuscan literature. 

The poetry of Milton differs from that of Dante as the hiero- 
glyphics of Egypt differed from the picture-writing of Mexico. 
The images which Dante employs speak for themselves : they 
stand simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a signifi- 
cation which is often discernible only to the initiated. Their 
value depends less on what they directly represent than on what 
they remotely suggest. However strange, however grotesque, may 
be the appearance which Dante undertakes to describe, he never 
shrinks from describing it. He gives us the shape, the color, the 
sound, the smell, the taste ; he counts the numbers ; he measures 
the size. His similes are the illustrations of a traveler. Unlike 
those of other poets, and especially of Milton, they are introduced 
in a plain, business-like manner; not for the sake of any beauty 
in the objects from which they are drawn, not for the sake of any 
ornament which they may impart to the poem, but simply in 
order to make the meaning of the writer as clear to the reader as 
it is to himself. The ruins of the precipice which led from the 
sixth to the seventh circle of hell were like those of the rock which 
fell into the Adige on the south of Trent. The cataract of Phlege- 
thon was like that of Aqua Cheta at the monastery of St. Bene- 
dict. The place where the heretics were confined in burning 
tombs resembled the vast cemetery of Aries. Now, let us com- 
pare with the exact details of Dante the dim intimations of Mil- 
ton. We will cite a few examples. The English poet has never 
thought of taking the measure of Satan. He gives us merely a 
vague idea of vast bulk. In one passage, the fiend lies stretched 
out, huge in length, floating many a rood, equal in size to the 
earth-born enemies of Jove, or to the sea-monster which tlie 
mariner mistakes for an island. When he addresses himself to 
battle against the guardian angels, he stands like Teneriffe or 
Atlas : his stature reaches the sky. Contrast with these descrip- 
tions the lines in which Dante has described the gigantic specter 
of Nimrod : " His face seemed to me as long and as broad as the 
ball of St. Peter's at P-ome ; and his other limbs were in pro^^or- 
tion : so that the bank, which concealed him from the waist down- 
wards, nevertheless showed so much of him, that three tall Ger- 
mans would in vain have attempted to reach his hau\" We are 



THOMAS BABINGTON" MACAULAY. 339 

sensible that we do no justice to the admirable style of the Floren- 
tine poet : bat Mr. Gary's translation is not at hand ; and our 
version, however rude, is sufficient to illustrate our meaning. 

Once more : compare the lazar-house in the eleventh book of 
the " Paradise Lost " with the last ward of Malebolge in Dante. 
Milton avoids the loathsome details, and takes refuge in indistinct 
but solemn and tremendous imagery, — Despair hurrying from 
couch to couch to mock the wretches with his attendance ; Death 
shaking his dart over them, but, in spite of supplications, delay- 
ing to strike. What says Dante ? — " There was such a moan 
there as there would be if all the sick, who, between July and 
September, are in the hospitals of Valdichiana, and of the Tuscan 
swamps, and of Sardinia, were in one pit together; and such a 
stench was issuing forth as is wont to issue from decayed limbs." 
We will not take upon ourselves the invidious office of settling 
precedency between two such writers. Each in his own depart- 
ment is incomparable ; and each, we may remark, has, wisely or 
fortunately, taken a subject adapted to exhibit his peculiar talent 
to the greatest advantage. The " Divine Comedy " is a personal 
narrative. Dante is the eye-witness and ear-witness of that which 
he relates. He is the very man who has heard the tormented 
spirits crying out for the second death ; who has read the dusky 
characters on the portal, within which there is no hope ; who has 
hidden his face from the terrors of the Gorgon ; who has fled from 
the hooks and the seething pitch of Barbariccia and Diaghignazzo. 
His own hands have grasped the shaggy sides of Lucifer ; his 
own feet have climbed the Mountain of Expiation ; his own brow 
has been marked by the purifying angel. The reader would throw 
aside such a tale in incredulous disgust, unless it were told with 
the strongest air of veracity, with a sobriety even in its horrors, 
with the greatest precision and multiplicity in its details. The 
narrative of Milton in this respect differs from that of Dante as 
the adventures of Amidas differ from those of Gulliver. The 
author of " Amidas " would have made his book ridiculous if he had 
introduced tliose minute particulars which gave such a charm to 
the work of Swift, — the nautical observations, the affected delicacy 
about names, the official documents transcribed at full length, and 
all the unmeaning gossip and scandal of the court, springing out 
of nothing, and tending to nothing. We are not shocked at being 
told that a man who lived, nobody knows when, saw many very 
strange sights ; and we can easily abandon ourselves to the ilhi- 
sion of the romance. But when Lemuel Gulliver, surgeon, now 
actuall}^ resident at Eotherhithe, tells us of pygmies and giants, 
flying islands and philosophizing horses, nothing but such circum- 
stantial touches could produce for a single moment a deception 
on the imagination. Of all the poets who have introduced into 



340 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

their works the agenc}^ of supernatural beings, Milton has succeed- 
ed best. Here Dante decidedly yields to liim. And, as this is a 
point on wliich many rash and ill-considered judgments have been 
pronounced, we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. The 
most fatal error which a poet can possibly commit in the manage- 
ment of his machinery is that of attempting to philosophize too 
much. Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits 
many functions of which spirits must be incapable ; but these 
objections, though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we ven- 
ture to say, in profoun J ignorance of the art of poetry. What is 
spirit ? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit with which 
we are best acquainted ? We observe certain phenomena : we 
can not explain them into material causes ; we therefore infer 
that there exists something wiiich is not material. But of this 
something we have no idea. We can define it only by negatives. 
We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the word ; but 
we have no image of the thing : and the business of poetry is with 
images, and not with words. The poet uses words, indeed ; but 
they are merely the instruments of his art, not its objects. They 
are the materials which he is to dispose in such a manner as to 
present a picture to the mental eye. And, if they are not so dis- 
posed, they aJre no more entitled to be called poetry than a bale 
of canvas and a box of colors are to be called a painting. Logi- 
cians may reason about abstractions; but the great mass of man- 
kind can never feel an interest in them. They must have images. 
The strong tendency of the multitude, in all ages and nations, to 
idolatry, can be explained on no other principle. The first inhabit- 
ants of Greece, there is every reason to believe, worshiped one 
invisible Deity ; but the necessity of having something more 
definite to adore produced in a few centuries the innumerable 
crowd of gods and goddesses. In like manner, the ancient Per- 
sians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a human 
form; yet even these transferred to the sun the worship, which, 
speculatively, they considered due only to the Supreme Mind. 
The history of the Jews is the record of a continual struggle 
between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, 
and the strangelj-fascinating desire of having some visible and 
tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary 
causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which 
Christianity spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever 
acquired a proselyte, operated more powerfully than this feeling. 
God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted 
few worshipers. A philosopher might admire so noble a concep- 
tion ; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which 
presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity embodied 
in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirnii- 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. 341 

ties, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over tlieir graves, slumber- 
ing in tlie manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of 
the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of 
the Portico, and the fasces of the lictor, and the swords of thirty 
legions, were humbled in the dust. Soon after Christianity had 
achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it began 
to corrupt. It became a new paganism. Patron saints assumed 
the offices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. 
St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of " Castor and Pollux." 
The Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the Muses. 
The fascination of sex and loveliness was again joined to that of 
celestial dignity; and the homage of chivalry was blended with 
that of religion. E-eformers have often made a stand against 
these feelings, but never with more than apparent and partial 
success. The men who demolished the images in cathedrals have 
not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in 
their minds. It would not be difficult to show that in politics the 
same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally 
be embodied, before they can excite strong public feeling. The 
multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge 
or the most insignificant name than for the most important prin- 
ciple. From these considerations, we infer that no poet who 
should affect that metaphysical accuracy, for the want of which 
Milton has been blamed, would escape a disgraceful failure. Still, 
however, there was another extreme, which, though far less dan- 
gerous, was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in 
a great measure under the control of their opinions. The most 
exquisite art of a poetical coloring can produce no illusion when 
it is employed to represent tliat which is at once perceived to be 
incongruous and absurd. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers 
and theologians. It was necessary, therefore, for him to abstain 
from giving such a shock to their understandings as might break 
the charm which it was his object to throw over their imagina- 
tions. This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and in- 
consistenc}^- with which he has often been reproached. Dr. John- 
son acliuowledges that it was absolutely necessary for him to 
clothe his spirits with material forms. "But," says he, "he 
should have secured the consistency of his system by keeping 
immateriality out of sight, and seducing the reader to drop it from 
his thoughts." This is easily said; but what if he could not 
seduce the reader to drop it from his thoughts ? What if the 
contrary opinion had taken so full a possession of the minds of 
men as to leave no room even for the quasi-belief which poetry 
requires ? Such we suspect to have been the case. It was impos- 
sible for the poet to adopt altogether the material or the immate- 
rial system. He therefore took his stand on the debatable ground. 



342 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

He left the whole in ambiguity. He has doubtless, by so doing, 
laid himself open to the charge of inconsistency 5 but, though 
philosophically in the wrong, we can not but believe that he was 
poetically in the right. This task, which almost any other writer 
would have found impracticable, was easy to him. The peculiar 
art which he possessed, of communicating his meaning circuitously, 
through a long succession of associated ideas, and of intimating 
more than he expressed, enabled him to disguise those incongrui- 
ties which he could not avoid. 

Poetry which relates to the beings of another world ought to 
be at once mysterious and picturesque. That of Milton is so. 
That of Dante is picturesque, indeed, beyond any that was ever 
written. Its effect approaches to that produced by the pencil 
or the chisel ; but it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mys- 
tery. This is a fault, indeed, on the right side, ■ — a fault insep- 
arable from the plan of his poem, which, as we have already 
observed, rendered the utmost accuracy of description necessar}''. 
Still it is a fault. His supernatural agents excite an interest ; 
but it is not the interest which is proper to supernatural agents. 
A¥e feel that we could talk with his ghosts and demons with- 
out any emotions of unearthly awe. We could, like Don Juan, 
ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their company. His 
angels are good men with wings ; his devils are spiteful, 
ugly executioners ; his dead men are merely living men in 
strange situations. The scene which passes between the poet 
and Facinata is justly celebrated : still Facinata in the burning 
tomb is exactly what Facinata would have been at an auto-da-fe. 
Nothing can be more touching than the first interview of Dante 
and Beatrice ; yet what is it but a lovely woman chiding with 
sweet austere composure the lover for whose affections she is 
grateful, but whose vices she reprobates ? The feelings which 
give the passage its charm would suit the streets of Florence as 
well as the summit of the Mount of Purgatory. The spirits of 
Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His fiends, in 
particular, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphj^sical 
abstractions ; they are not wicked men ; they are not ugly beasts ; 
they have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-faw-fum of Tasso 
and Klopstock : they have just enough in common with human 
nature to be intelligible to human beings. Their characters are, 
like their forms, marked by a certain dim resemblance to those of 
men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in myste- 
rious gloom. 

Perhaps the gods and demons of ^schylus may best bear 
a comparison with the angels and devils of Milton. The style 
of the Athenian had, as we have remarked, something of the 
vagueness and tenor of the Oriental character j and the same 



HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, AND TRAVEL. 343 

peculiarity may be traced in his mytliology. It has nothing of 
the amenity and elegance which we generally find in the super- 
stitions of Greece. All is rugged, barbaric, and colossal. His 
legends seem to harmonize less with the fragrant groves and 
graceful porticos in which his countrymen paid their vows to the 
God of Light, and Goddess of Desire, than with those huge and 
grotesque labyrinths of eternal granite in which Egypt enshrined 
her mystic Osiris, or in which Hindostan still bows down to her 
seven-headed idols. His favorite gods are those of the elder 
generations, — the sons of heaven and earth, compared with whom 
Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart, — the gigantic 
Titans, and the inexorable Furies. Foremost among his creations 
of this class stands Prometheus, half fiend, half redeemer, the 
friend of man, the sullen and implacable enemy of heaven. He 
bears, undoubtedly, a considerable resemblance to the Satan of 
Milton. In both, we find the same impatience of control, the 
same ferocity, the same unconquerable pride. In both characters, 
also, are mingled, though in very different proportions, some kind 
and generous feelings. Prometheus, however, is hardly super- 
human enough. He talks too much of his chains and his uneasy 
posture ; he is rather too much depressed and agitated ; his 
resolution seems to depend on the knowledge which he possesses 
that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and that the 
hour of his release will surely come. But Satan is a creature of 
another sphere. The might of his intellectual nature is victorious 
over the extremity of pain. Amidst agonies which can not be 
conceived without horror, he deliberates, resolves, and even exults. 
Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, 
against the flaming lake and the marl burning with solid fire, 
against the prospect of an eternity of unintermittent misery, his 
spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate energies, 
requiring no support from any thing external, nor even from hope 
itself! 



HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, AND TRAVEL. 

James Anthony Froude. — 1818. " Histoiy of England from the Fall of Wolsey 
to the Death of J-Clizabeth." JIaterially qualifies the generally-received opinions of 
several historical characters. 

Henry Thomas Buckle. — 1823-1862. " History of Civilization," two vols. ; a 
most remarkable attempt to write history in the order of its scientific growth. Not 
completed. 

Sir Archibald Alison. — 1792. " The History of Europe from the Commence- 
ment of the French Revolution to the Restoration of the Bourbons," ten vols.; *' To 
Accession of Louis Napoleon," eight vols.; also " A Life of Marlborough." 



344 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

George Grote. — 1794. " The History of Greece to the Death of Alexander the 
Great," — a work of the highest merit. 

Thomas Arnold. — 1795-1842. Head master of Kugby. Author of "A Frag- 
ment of Roman History," '' Sermons," and "Historical Lectures." 

CoNis'OP Thirlwall. — 1797. " History of Greece." 

Sir Francis Palgrave. — 1788-1861. "The History of the Anglo-Saxons;" 
"The Rise and Progress of the English Commonwealth;" "The History of Nor- 
mandy and of England." 

John Gibson Lockhart. — 1793-1854. "Life of Sir Walter Scott," his father- 
in-law; " Valerius " and '" Reginald Dalton," novels; Spanish ballads. 

John Forster. — 1812. "Lives of the Statesmen of the Commonwealth," and 
"Life of Goldsmith." 

George Henry Lewes. — 1817. "Life of Goethe;" " A Biographical History 
of Philosophy ; " " Life of Robespierre ; " " The Physiology of Common Life ; " " The 
Spanish Drama," and other woi'ks. 

David Masson. — 1822. "British Novelists and their Styles;" "Life and 
Times of John Milton." 

Samuel Laing. — "A Residence in Norway;" "A Tour in Sweden;" "Notes 
of a Traveler." 

David Livingstone. — 1817. " Missionary Travels in South Africa." 

Austen Henry Layard. — 1817. "Nineveh and its Remains;" "Discoveries 
in the Ruins of Nineveh and Babylon." 

Richard Ford. — 1796-1858. Mui-ray's "Handbook for Spain;" "Gatherings 
from Spain." 

George Borrow. — 1803. "The Bible in Spain;" "Zincali, or the Gypsies in 
Spain; " " Lavengro, or the Scholar, the Gypsy, and the Priest," and Sequel; " The 
Romany Rye." 

Alexander W. Kinglake. — 1811. " Eothen," — travels in the East. 

Sir James Emerson Tennent. — 1804. "Modern Greece;" "Belgium;" 
" Wine ;" and " Ceylon." 

Sir Francis Head. — 1793. " Pampas and the Andes," and other works. 

Charles Waterton. — " Wanderings in South America; " " Antilles; " &c. 

Capt. Sherrard Osborne. — 1820. "Stray Leaves from an Arctic Journal;" 
" A Cruise in Japanese Waters." 

Dr. Rae, Sir Robert M'Clure, and Sir Leopold M'Clintock, are eminent for 
arctic travel and discovery. 

Henry D. Inglis, Sir John Bowrtng, Eliot Warburton, John Francis 
Davis, Wingrove Cooke, Laurence Oliphant, and Rev. Josias Porter, have 
all written interesting accounts of travel. 

Lord Campbell. — 1799-1861. " Lives of the Lord Chancellors ; " " Lives of the 
Chief Justices." 

Charles Knight. — 1790. "Old Printer and Modem Press;" "Popular 
History of England; " edition of Shakspeare. 

Robert Vaughn. — 1798. " John de Wycliffe ; " " England under the Stuarts ; " 
" Revolutions of English History." 

Agnes and Elizabeth Strickland. — " Lives of the Queens of England and 
Scotland." 

Walter F. Hook.— "Ecclesiastical Biography;" "Church Diet;" "Arch- 
bishops of Canterbury." 

Robert Chambers. — 1802. "Traditions of Edinburgh ; " "Domestic Annals 
of Scotland; " and " History of the Rebellion of 1745, 1746"" 

Cosmo Innes. — " Scotland in the Middle Ages; " " Sketches of Early Scottish 
History." 

Earl Stanhope. — 1805. " Life of Belisarius ; " " War of Succession in Spain ; " 
" History of England from the Peace of Utrecht to the Peace of Versailles." 



THEOLOGIANS, SCHOLARS, ESSAYISTS, ETC. 



345 



Sir George C. Lewis. —1806. "The Credibility of Early Eoman History;" 
"Influence of Authority on Opinions." 

John Hill Burton. — 1809, "Life of Hume;" "History of Scotland;" and 
others. 

Thomas A. Trollope. — " Girlliood of Catherine de Medici;" "A Decade of 
Italian Women." 

William H. Russell. — 1816. " Letters on Crimean War; " " Diary in India; " 
and special correspondent of "The London Times." 

George Wilson. Hanna. 

William Stirling. Muirhead. 

William H. Dixon. Smiles. 

George Finlay. Carruthers. 

James White. ^Miss Pardoe. 

Eyre Crowe. Miss Freer. 
And many others who have written biogx'aphies or histories of short periods or of 
a local character. 



TI-IEOLOaiANS AND SCHOLAES. 



Thomas Chalmers. — 1780-1847. "Natural Theology;" "Evidences of 
Christianity;" "Lectures on the Romans," and other eloquent discourses, — in all, 
thirty-four vols. 

Isaac Taylor. — 1787. " Natural History of Enthusiasm; " "Ancient Christi- 
anity." 

WiLLiA3i i\IuRE. — 1799. " Critical History of the Language and Literature of 
Ancient Greece." 



THo:\rAs Guthrte. 
Henry Rogers. 
John Bird Sumnek. 
John Brown. 
Julius Hare. 
John Kitto. 
William E. Gladstone. 
Henry Rawlinson. 
Arthur P. Stanley. 
John Tulloch. 
Norman M'Leod. 
John H. Newjian. 
Benja3Iin .Towett. 
Ja:mes Martineau. 

Bishop COLENSO. 



J. W. Donaldson. 
Ralph Wardlaw. 
Thomas H. Horne. 
Hugh M'Neile. 
R. S. Candlish. 
Richard C. Trench. 
Henry Alford. 
William A. Butler. 
Robert A. Thompson. 
John Caird. 
Edward Pusey. 
Francis New:man. 
J. F. D. :\rAURicE. 
Cardinal Wij^eman. 
Goldwin Smith. 



ESSAYISTS AND CKITICS. 



John Wilson. — 1785-1854. Author of "Noctes Ambrosianse." He was the 
" Christopher North " of " Blackwood." 

Anna Jameson. — 1796-1860. "Characteristics of Women;" "Sacred and 
Legendary Art ; " and others. 

Harriet IMartineau. — 1802. "Societvin Arperica;" " Deerbrook ; " and 
" The Hour and the ilan; " " The History of the Thirty- Years' Peace." 



346 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Sakah Ellis. — " The Women of England," and several others. 
Artpiuk Helps.— " Friends in Council," and " Companions of my Solitude." 
John Euskin. — 1819. The verj^ popular author of " Modern Painters, " " The 
Seven Lamps of Architecture," and' " The Stones of Venice." 

John Payne Collier. John Sterling. 

William Maginn. Mary C. Clarke. 

William and Mary Howitt. Sajiuel Phillips. 

George Gilfillan. George Brimley. 

Alexander Dyce. 
And many others, all of whom have written one or more volumes worthy the pupil's 
attention. 



SCIEISrCE. 

Sir David Brewster. — 1781-1868. "Optics;" "More Worlds than One;" 
and "Life of Sir Isaac Newton." Twenty years writing "Edinburgh Encyclo- 
psedia." 

EiCHARD Whately. — 1787-1863. " Logic ; " " Rhetoric ; " " Political Econo- 
my," and other philosophical works. 

Sir William Hamilton. — 1788-1856. " Distinguished Metaphysicians." 

Sir EoDERiCK Murchison. — 1792. " Geologj^ of Eussia," and " Siluria." 

William Whewell. — 1795. " History of Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences," 
and one of " The Bridge water Treatises." 

Mary SoMERViLLE. — " The Connection of the Physical Sciences;" "Physical 
Geography." 

Hugh ]\ Filler. — 1802-1856. Distinguished geologist. Author of several 
popular works. 

John Stuart ]\riLL. — 1806. " Logic; " " PoHtical Economy; " and " Liberty." 
One of the ablest men of the time. 

William Smith. — 1769-1839. Geology. 

William Buckland. — 1784-1856. Geology. 

Gideon Mantel. — 1788-1852. Geology. 

DiONYSius Lardner. — 1793-1859. " Museum of Science," and " Lectures." 

Michael Faraday. — 1794-1867. Distinguished chemist. 

Sir Charles Lyell. — 1797. Several geological Avorks. 

EiciiARD Owen. — Zoologist. 

James Ferrier. Herbert Spencep^ 

Dr. Mansell. Charles Darwin. 

]\IoRELL. J. D. Forbes. 

I\I'CosH. Tyndall. 

Alexajs^der Bain. Koscoe. 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 347 

THOMAS CARLYLE. 

BORN 1795. 

A remarkable essayist of a truly original stj'le. A disjointed collection of short 
apostrophes to the varied elements of French society about the time of and during 
the French Revolution, he calls a history of that period. "The Letters and 
Speeches of Oliver Cromwell, with Elucidations," are more connected, and give a 
vivid picture of the man and the times. 

PRINCIPAL WOEKS. 

" Sartor Resartus," " Latter-day Pamphlets," " Frederick the Great," and several 
others of the same vigorous, sledge-hammer style. 



OLIVER CROMWELL. 



ANTI-DRYASDUST. 



What and how great are the interests which connect them- 
selves with the hope that England may yet attain to some practical 
belief and understanding of its history during the seventeenth 
century, need not be insisted on at present ; such hope being still 
very distant, very uncertain. We have wandered far away from 
the ideas which guided us in that century, and indeed which had 
guided us in all preceding centuries, but of which that century 
was the ultimate manifestation : we have wandered very far ; and 
must endeavor to return, and connect ourselves therewith again. 
It is with other feelings than those of poor peddling dilettanteism, 
other aims than the writing of successful or unsuccessful publica- 
tions, that an earnest man occupies himself in those dreary prov- 
inces of the dead and buried. The last glimpse of Godlike 
vanishing from this England ; conviction and veracity giving 
place to hollow cant and formalism; antique "Reign of God," 
which all true men in their several dialects and modes have 
always striven for, giving place to modern " E-eign of the No-God," 
whom men name Devil, — this, in its multitudinous meanings and 
results, is a sight to create reflections in the earnest man. One 
wishes there were a history of English Puritanism, the last of all 
our heroisms, but sees small prospect of such a thing at 
present. 

" Few nobler heroisms," says a well-known writer long occupied 
on this subject, "at bottom, perhaps no nobler heroism, ever 
transacted itself on this earth ; and it lies as good as lost to us, 
overwhelmed under such an avalanche of human stupidities as no 
heroism before ever did. Intrinsically and extrinsicallj'", it may 
be considered inaccesible to these generations. Intrinsically, the 



348 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

spiritual purport of it has become inconceivable, incredible, to the 
modern mind ; extrinsically, the documents and records of it, 
scattered waste as a shoreless chaos, are not legible. They lie 
there, printed, written, to the extent of tons and square miles, as 
shot-rubbish ; unedited, unsorted, not so much as indexed ; full 
of every conceivable confusion; yielding light to very few; 
yielding darkness in several sorts to very many. Dull pedantry, 
conceited idle dilettanteism, prurient stupidity in what shape so- #■ 
ever, is darkness, and not light. There are from thirty to fifty 
thousand unread pamphlets of the Civil War in the British 
Museum alone, — huge piles of moldering wreck, wherein, at the 
rate of perhaps one pennyweight per ton, lie things memorable. 
They lie preserved there, waiting happier days : under present 
conditions, they can not, except for idle purposes, for dilettante 
excerpts and such like, be got examined. The Rush worths, 
Whitlockes, Nalsons, Thurloes, — enormous folios these, and many 
others : they have been printed, and some of them again printed, 
but never yet edited, — edited as you edit wagon-loads of broken 
bricks and dry mortar, simply by tumbling up the wagon. Not 
one of these monstrous old volumes has so much as an available 
index. It is the general rule of editing on this matter. If your 
editor correct the press, it is an honorable distinction to him. 
Those dreary old records were compiled at first by human insight 
in part, and in great part by human stupidity withal ; but then 
it was by stupidity in a laudable, diligent state, and doing its 
best, which was something : and, alas ! they have been suc- 
cessively elaborated by human stupidity in the idle state, falling 
idler and idler, and only pretending to be diligent, whereby now, 
for us, in these late days, the}^ have grown very dim indeed. To 
Dryasdust printing societies, and such like, they afford a sorrow- 
ful kind of pabulum : but, for all serious purposes, they are as if 
non-extant; might as well, if matters are to rest as they are, not 
have been written or printed at all. The sound of them is not a 
voice, conveying knowledge or memorial of any earthly or heavenly 
thing : it is a,,widespread, inarticulate, slumberous mumblement, 
issuing as if from the lake of eternal sleep ; craving for oblivion, 
for abolition, and honest silence, as a blessing in comparison. 

"This, then," continues our impatient friend, "is the Elysium 
we English have provided for our heroes ! — the Rushworthian 
Elysium ; dreariest continent of shot-rubbish the eye ever saw. 
Confusion piled on confusion to your utmost horizon's edge; 
obscure in lurid twilight as of the shadow of death ; trackless, 
without index, without finger-post, or mark of any human 
foregoer ; where your human footstep, if you are still human, 
echoes bodeful through the gaunt solitude, peopled only by 
somnambulant pedants, dilettanti, and doleful creatures; by 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 349 

pliantasmSj errors, inconceivabilities ; by nightmares, pasteboard 
norroys, griffins, wiverns, and chimeras dire. There, all van- 
quished, overwhelmed under such waste lumber-mountains, — the 
wreck and dead ashes of some six unbelieving generations, — does 
the age of Cromwell and his Puritans lie hidden from us. This 
is what we, for our share, have been able to accomplish toward 
keeping our heroic ones in memory. By way of sacred poet, they 
have found voluminous Dryasdust, and his collections and philo- 
sophical histories. 

" To Dryasdust, who wishes merely to compile torpedo histories 
of the philosophical or other sorts, and gain immortal laurels for 
himself by writing about it and about it, all this is sport ; but to us 
who struggle piously, passionately, to behold, if but in glimpses, the 
faces of our vanished fathers, it is death. O Dryasdust, my volu- 
minous friend ! had human stupidity continued in the diligent state, 
think you it had ever come to this ? Surely, at least, you might have 
made an index for these huge books ! Even your genius, had you 
been faithful, w^as adequate to that. Those thirty thousand or fifty 
thousand old newspapers and pamphlets of the King's Library — 
it is you, my voluminous friend, that should have sifted them 
many long years ago. Instead of droning out these melancholy 
skepticisms, constitutional philosophies, torpedo narratives, jou. 
should have sifted those old stacks of pamphlet-matter foi- us, and 
have had the metal grains lying here accessible, and the dross- 
heaps lying there avoidable : 3'ou had done the human memory 
a service thereby : some human remembrance of this matter had 
been more possible," 

Certainly this description does not want for emphasis ; but all 
ingenuous inquirers into the past will say there is too much truth 
in it. Nay, in addition to the sad state of our historical books, 
and what, indeed, is fundamentally the cause and origin of that, 
our common spiritual notions, if any notion of ours may still de- 
serve to be called spiritual, are fatal to a right understanding of 
that seventeenth century. The Christian doctrines, which then 
dwelt alive in every heart, have now, in a manner, died out of all 
hearts (very mournful to behold), and are not the guidance of 
this world any more. Nay, worse still, the cant of them does yet 
dwell alive with us (little doubting that it is cant) ; in which 
fatal intermediate state the eternal sacredness of this universe 
itself, of this human life itself, has fallen dark to the most of us; 
and we think that, too, a cant and a creed. Thus the old names 
suggest new things to us ; not august and divine, but hypocriti- 
cal, pitiable, detestable. The old names and similitudes of belief 
still circulate from tongue to tongue, though now in such a ghastly 
condition ; not as commandments of the living God, which we 
must do, or perish eternally ; alas ! nO; — as something very diifer- 



350 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ent from that. Here properly lies the grand unintelligibility of the 
seventeenth century for us. From this source has proceeded our 
maltreatment of it, our miseditings, miswritings, and all the other 
^^ avalanche of human stupidity," wherewith, as our impatient 
friend complains, we have allowed it to be overwhelmed. We 
have allowed some other things to be overwhelmed. Would to 
Heaven that were the worst fruit we had gathered from our unbe- 
lief and our cant of belief ! Our impatient friend continues : — 

"1 have known nations altogether destitute of printers' types 
and learned appliances, with nothing better than old songs, monu- 
mental stone-heaps, and quipo-thrums to keep record by, who 
had truer memory of t^heir memorable things than this. Truer 
memory, I say ; for at least the voice of their past heroisms, if 
indistinct, and all awry as to dates and statistics, was still melo- 
dious to those nations. The body of it might be dead enough ; 
but the soul of it, partly harmonized, put in real accordance with 
the ' eternal melodies,' was alive to all hearts, and could not die. 
The memory of their ancient brave ones did not rise like a hide- 
ous, huge leaden vapor, an amorphous emanation of chaos, like a 
petrifying Medusa specter, on those poor nations : no ! but like a 
Heaven's apparition, which it was, it still stood radiant, benefi- 
cent, before all hearts, calling all hearts to emulate it; and the 
recognition of it was a psalm and song. These things will re- 
quire to be practically meditated by and by. Is human writing, 
then, the art of burying heroisms and highest facts in chaos, so 
that no man shall henceforth contemplate them without horror 
and aversion, and danger of locked-jaw? What does Dryasdust 
consider that he was born for ? that paper and ink were made 
for? 

'^ It is very notable, and leads to endless reflections, how the 
Greeks had their living Iliad where we have such a deadly, inde- 
scribable Cromwelliad. The old Pantheon, home of all the gods, 
has become a peerage-book, with black and white surplice ; con- 
troversies superadded, not unsuitably. The Greeks had their 
Homers, Hesiods, where we have our Rymers, Rushworths, our 
Norroys, Garter-Kings, and Bishops Cobweb. Very notable, I say. 
By the genius, wants, and instincts and opportunities, of the one 
people, striving to keep themselves in mind of what was memora- 
ble, there had fashioned itself in the effort of successive centuries 
a Collin's peerage, improved by Sir Egerton Brydges. By their 
Pantheons ye shall know them ! Have not we English a talent 
for silence? Our very speech and printed speech, such a force of 
torpor dwelling in it, is properl^^ a higher power of silence. There 
is no silence like the speech ^^ou can not listen to without danger 
of locked-jaw. Given a divine heroism, to smother it well in 
human dullness, to touch it with the mace of death, so that no 



THOMAS CAELYLE. 351 

human soul shall henceforth recognize it for a heroism, but all 
souls shall fly from it as from a chaotic torpor, an insanity and 
horror, — I will back our English genius against the world in such 
a problem ! 

"Truly we have done great things in that sort, down from 
Korman William all the way, and earlier ; and to the English 
mind at this hour the past history of England is little other than 
a dull, dismal labyrinth, in which the English mind, if candid, 
will confess that it has found of knowable (meaning even con- 
ceivable), of lovable, or memorable, next to nothing. As if we 
had done no brave thing at all in this earth ! As if not men, but 
nightmares, had written of our history ! The English, one can 
discern withal, have been, perhaps, as brave a people as their 
neighbors, — perhaps, for valor of action and true hard labor in this 
earth, since brave peoples were first made in it, there has been none 
braver anywhere or anywhen ; but also, it must be owned, in stu- 
pidity of speech they have no fellow. What can poor English 
heroisms do in such case but fall torpid into the domain of the 
nightmares ? For, of a truth, stupidity is strong, most strong. As 
the poet Schiller sings, ^Against stupidity the very gods fight 
unvictorious.' There is in it a placid inexhaustibility, a calm, vis- 
cous infinitude, which will baffle even the gods ; which will say 
calmly, ' Try all your lightnings here ; see whether I can not 
quench them ! ' 

' Mit der Dummheit kampfen Gotter selbst vergebens.' " 

Has our friend forgotten that it is destiny withal, as well as 
"stupidity;" that such is the case, more or less, with human his- 
tory always? By very nature, it is a labyrinth and chaos, this 
that we call human history; an abatis of trees and brushwood; a 
world-wide jungle, at once growing and dying. Under the green 
foliage and blossoming fruit-trees of to-day, there lies rotting, 
slower or faster, the forests of all other years and days. Some 
have rotted fast (plants of annual growth), and are long since quite 
gone to inorganic mold; others are like the aloe, — growth that 
lasts a thousand or three thousand years. You will find them in 
all stages of decay and preservation, down deep to the begin- 
nings of the history of man. Think where our alphabetic letters 
came from, where our speech itself came from, the cookeries we 
live b}^, the masonries we lodge under ! You will find fibrous 
roots of this day's occurrences among the dust of Cadmus and 
Trismegistus, of Tubal Cain and Triptolemus : the tap-roots of 
them are with Father Adam himself, and the cinders of Eve's first 
fire ! At bottom, there is no perfect history : there is none such 
conceivable. 

All past centuries have rotted down; and gone confusedly dumb 



352 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

and quiet, even as tliat seventeenth is now threatening to do. 
Histories are as perfect as the historian is wise, and is gifted with 
an eye and a soul; for the leafy, blossoming Present Time 
springs from the whole Past^ remembered and unrememberable, 
so confusedly as we say. And truly the art of history, the grand 
difi'erence between a Dryasdust and a sacred poet, is very much 
even this: To distinguish well what does still reach to the sur- 
face, and is alive and frondent for us 5 and what reaches no lon- 
ger to the surface, but molders safe underground, never to send 
forth leaves or fruit for mankind any more. Of the former we 
shall rejoice to hear: to hear of the latter will be an affliction to 
us ; of the latter, only pedants and dullards, and disastrous male- 
factors to the world, will find good to speak. By wise memory 
and by wise oblivion, it lies all there. Without oblivion, there 
is no remembrance possible. When both oblivion and memory 
are wise ; when the general soul of man is clear, melodious, true, — 
there may come a modern Iliad as memorial of the past : when 
both are foolish, and the general soul is overclouded with confu- 
sions, with unveracities and discords, there is a " Kushworthian 
chaos." 

Let Dryasdust be blamed, beaten with stripes, if you will; 
but let it be with pity, with blame to Fate chiefly. Alas ! when 
sacred priests are arguing about " black and white surplices," 
and sacred poets have long professedly deserted truth, and gone 
a wool-gathering after "ideals" and such like, what can you ex- 
pect of poor secular pedants ? The labyrinth of history must 
grow ever darker, more intricate and dismal ; vacant cargoes of 
" ideals " will arrive yearly, to be cast into the oven ; and noble 
heroisms of fact, given up to Dryasdust, will be buried in a very 
disastrous manner. 

But the thing we had to say and repeat was this, — that Puri- 
tanism is not of the nineteenth century, but, of the seventeenth; 
that the grand unintelligibility for us lies there. The fast-day 
sermons of St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, in spite of 
printers, are all grown dumb. In long rows of little dumpy quartos, 
gathered from the bookstalls, they indeed stand here bodily be- 
fore us : by human volition they can be read, but not hy any 
human memory remembered. We forget them as soon as read: 
they have become a weariness to the soul of man. They are dead 
and gone, — they, and what they shadowed: the human soul, got 
into other latitudes, can not now give harbor to them. Alas ! and 
did not the Houses of Parliament listen to them with rapt earnest- 
ness, as to an indisputable message from Heaven itself ? Learned 
and painful Dr. Osven, learned and painful Dr. Burgess, Stephen 
Marshall, Mr. Spurstow, Adoniram Byfield, Hugh Peters, Philip 
Nye, — the printer has done for them what he could, and Mr. 



THOMAS CAELYLE, 353 

Speaker gave them the thanks of the House ; and no most astonish- 
ing Review article of our day can have half such " brilliancy," 
such potency, half such virtue for producing belief, as these their 
poor little dumpy quartos once had. And, behold ! they are be- 
come inarticulate men, spectral ; and, instead of speaking, do not 
screech and gibber ! All Puritanism is grown inarticulate : its 
fervent preachings, prayings, pamphleteerings, are sunk into one 
indiscriminate, moaning hum, mournful as the voice of subter- 
ranean winds. So much falls silent : human speech, unless by- 
rare chance it touch on the "eternal melodies," and harmonize 
with them ; human action, interest, if divorced from the eternal 
melodies, — sinks all silent. The fashion of this world passeth 
away. 

The age of the Puritans is not extinct only, and gone away 
from us ; but it is as if fallen beyond the capabilities of Memory 
herself: it is grown unintelligible; what we may call incredi- 
ble. Its earnest purport awakens now no resonance in our 
frivolous hearts. We understand, not even in imagination, one 
of a thousand of us, what it ever could have meant. It seems 
delirious, delusive : the sound of it has become tedious as a tale 
of past stupidities. Not the body of heroic Puritanism only, 
which was bound to die, but the soul of it also, which was, and 
should have been, and yet shall be, immortal, has for the present 
passed away. As Harrison said of his " Banner and Lion " of 
the tribe of Judah, " Who shall rouse him up ? " " For indis- 
putably," exclaims the above-cited author in his vehement way, 
" this, too, was a heroism ; and the soul of it remains part of the 
eternal soul of things. Here, of our own land and lineage, in 
practical English shape, were heroes on the earth once more, 
who knew in every fiber, and with heroic daring laid to heart, 
that an Almighty Justice does verily rule this world; that it is 
good to fight on God's side, and bad to fight on the Devil's side, — 
the essence of all heroisms and veracities that have been, or that 
will be. Perhaps it was among the nobler and noblest human 
heroisms, this Puritanism of ours : but English Dr^^asdust could 
not discern it for a heroism at all ; as the Heaven's lightning, born 
of its black tempest, and destructive to pestilential mud-giants, is 
mere horror and terror to the pedant species everywhere, which, 
like the owl in any sudden brightness, has to shu^ its eyes, or 
hastily procure smoked spectacles on an improved principle. 
Heaven's brightness would be intolerable otherwise. Only your 
eagle dares look direct into the fire-radiance ; only your Schiller 
climbs aloft 'to discover whence the lightning is coming.' ' God- 
like men love lightning,' says one. Our old Norse fathers called 
it a God, — the sunny, blue-eyed Thor, with his all-conquering 
thunder-hammer, — who again, in calmer season, is beneficent 
23 



354 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

summer-heat. Godless men love it not ; shriek murder when 
they see it, shutting their eyes, and hastily procuring smoked 
spectacles. O Dryasdust ! thou art great and thrice great." 

" But, alas ! " exclaims he elsewhere, getting his eye on the real 
nodus of the matter, " what is it, all this Rushworthian inarticu- 
late rubbish-continent, in its ghastly, dim twilight, with its 
haggard wrecks and pale shadows, — what is it but the common 
kingdom of death ? This is what we call death, this moldering 
dumb wilderness of things once alive. Behold here the final 
evanescence of formed human things ! They had form ; but they 
are changing into sheer formlessness : ancient human speech 
itself has sunk into unintelligible maundering. This is the 
collapse, the etiolation of human features into moldy blank, 
dissolution, progress towards utter silence and disappearance, 
disastrous, ever-deepening dusk of gods and men ! Why has 
the living ventured thither, down from the cheerful light, across 
the Letlie swamps and Tartarean Phlegethons, onwards to these 
baleful halls of Dis and the three-headed Dog ? Some destiny drives 
him. It is his sins, I suppose : perhaps it is his love, strong as 
that of Orpheus for the lost Eurydice, and likely to have no better 
issue." 

Well, it would seem the resuscitation of a heroism from the 
past time is no easy enterprise. Our impatient friend seems 
really getting sad. We can well believe him. There needs 
pious love in any Orpheus that will risk descending to the 
gloomy halls, — descending, it may be, and fronting Cerberus and 
Dis to no purpose : for it oftenest proves so ; nay, as the m3'thol- 
ogists would teach us, always. Here is another mytlms : 
"Balder, the white Sun-God," say our Norse skalds, — "Balder, 
beautiful as the summer dawn, loved of gods and men, was dead. 
His brother Hermoder, urged by his mother's tears and the tears 
of the universe, went forth to seek him. He rode through 
gloomy winding valleys of a dismal leaden color, full of howling 
winds and subterraneous torrents, nine dsbys, ever deeper, down 
toward Hela's death-realm. At Lonesome Bridge, which, with 
its gold gate, spans the Eiver of Moaning, he found the portress, 
an ancient woman called Modgudr, ' the Vexer of Minds,' 
keeping watch as usual. . Modgudr answered him, ' Yes, Balder 
passed this way : but he is not here; he is down yonder,- — far, 
still far to the north, within Hela's gates, yonder.' Hermoder 
rode on, still dauntless, on his horse named ' Swiftness,' or 
' Mane of Gold ; ' reached Hela's gates ; leaped sheer over them, 
mounted as he was ; saw Balder, the very Balder, with his eyes, 
but could not bring him back. The Nomas were inexorable : 
Balder was never to come back. Balder beckoned him mourn- 
fully a still adieu. Nanna, Balder's wife, sent ' a thimble ' to 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 355 

her mother as a memoriah Bahier never could return ! " Is not 
this an emblem ? Old Portress Modgudr, I take it, is Dryasdust 
in Norse petticoat and hood, — a most unlovely beldam, the 
Yexer of Minds. 

We will here take final leave of our impatient friend, occupied 
in this almost desperate enterprise of his. We will wish him, 
which is very easy to do, more patience and better success than 
he seems to hope. And now to our own small enterprise, and 
solid dispatch of business in plain prose. 

OF OLIVER'S LETTERS AXD SPEECHES. 

Letters and authentic utterances of Oliver lie scattered, in 
print and manuscript, in a hundred repositories, in all varieties 
of condition and environment. Most of them — all the important 
of them — have already long since been printed, and again 
printed ; but we can not, in general, say ever read. Too often it 
is apparent that the very editor of these very utterances had, if 
reading mean understanding, never read them. They stand in 
their old spelling, mispunctuated, misprinted, unelucidated, unin- 
telligible, defaced with the dark incrustations too well known 
to students of that period. The speeches, above all, as hitherto 
set forth in " The Somers Tracts," in " The Milton State Papers," 
in Burton's " Diarj''," and other such books, excel human belief. 
Certainly no such agglomerate of opaque confusions, printed and 
reprinted, of darkness on the back of darkness, thick and three- 
fold, is known to me elsewhere in the history of things spoken 
or printed by human creatures. Of these speeches, all except 
one, which was published by authority at the time, I have to be- 
lieve myself, not very exultingly, to be the first actual reader for 
nearly two centuries past. 

Nevertheless, these documents do exist, authentic, though de- 
faced ; and invite every one, who would know that period, to study 
them until they become intelligible again. The words of Oliver 
Cromwell, the meaning they had, must be worth recovering 
in that point of view. To collect these " Letters and Authentic 
Utterances," as one's reading yielded them, was a comparatively 
grateful labor ; to correct them, elucidate, and make them legible 
again, w^as a good historical study. Surely " a wise memory " 
Tv^uld wish to preserve among men the written and spoken words 
of such a man ; and as for the "wise oblivion," that is already, by 
time and accident, done to our hand. Enough is already lost and 
destroyed. AVe need not in this particular case omit further. 

Accordingly, whatever words authentically proceeding from 
Oliver himself I could anywhere find jet surviving, I liave here 
gathered ; and will now, with such minimum of annotation as may 



356 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

suit that object, offer them to the reader. That is the purport of 
this book. I have ventured to believe, that to certain patient, 
earnest readers, these old dim letters of a noble Englisli man 
might, as they have done to myself, become dimly legible again ; 
might dimly present, better than all other evidence, the noble 
figure of the man himself again. Certainly there is historical 
instruction in these letters, — historical, and perhaps other and 
better. At least, it is with heroes and god-inspired men that I, 
for my part, would far rather converse, in what dialect soever they 
speak. Great, ever fruitful, profitable for reproof, for encourage- 
ment, for building up in manful purposes and works, are the 
words of those that in their day were men. I will advise serious 
persons interested in England, past or present, to tr}^ if the}^ can 
read a little in these letters of Oliver Cromwell, a man once deeply 
interested in the same object. Heavy as it is, and dim and obso- 
lete, there may be worse reading for such persons in our time. 

For the rest, if each letter look dim and have little light after 
all study, yet let the historical reader reflect, such light as it has 
can not be disputed at all. These words, expositor}^ of that day 
and that hour, Oliver Cromwell did see fittest to be written 
down. The letter hangs there in the dark abj^sses of the past : 
if, like a star, almost extinct, j^et, like a real star, fixed, about 
which there is no caviling possible. That autograph-letter, it 
was once all luminous as a burning beacon ; every word of it a live 
coal in its time ; it was once a piece of the general fire and light 
of human life, — that letter ! Neither is it yet entirely extinct : 
well read, there is still in it light enough to exhibit its own self; 
nay, to diffuse a faint authentic twilight some distance round it. 
Heaped embers which in the daylight looked black maj^ still look 
red in the utter darkness. These letters of Oliver will convince 
any man that the past did exist. By degrees, the combined small 
twilights may produce a kind of general feeble twilight, rendering 
the past credible, the ghosts of the past in some glimpses of 
them visible. Such is the effect of contemporarj^ letters always ; 
and I can very confidently recommend Oliver's as good of their 
kind. A man intent on forcing for himself some path through 
that gloomy chaos called History of the Seventeenth Century, 
and looking face to face upon the same, may perhaps try it by 
this method as hopefully as by another. Here is an irregular row 
of beacon-fires, once all luminous as suns, and with a certain in- 
extinguishable erubescence still, in the abysses of the dead deep 
night. Let us look here. In shadowy outlines, in dimmer and 
dimmer crowding forms, the very figure of the old dead time itself 
may perhaps be faintly discernible here. 

I called these letters good, but, withal, only good of their 
kind. No eloquence, elegance, not always even clearness of ex- 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 357 

pression, is to be looked for in tliem. They are written with far 
other than literary aims, — written, most of them, in the very flame 
and conflagration of a revolutionary struggle, and with an eye to 
the dispatch of indispensable pressing business alone ; but it will 
be found, I conceive, that, for such end, they are well written. 
Superfluity, as if by a natural law of the case, the writer has had 
to discard : whatsoever quality can be dispensed with is indifferent 
to him. With unwieldy movement, yet with a great solid stej^, 
he passes through toward his object; has marked out very deci- 
sively what the real steps toward it are, discriminating well the 
essential from the extraneous; forming to himself, in short, a 
true, not an untrue, picture of the business that is to be done. 
There is in these letters, as I have said above, a silence still more 
significant of Oliver to us than any speech they have. Dimly we 
discover features of an intelligence, and soul of a man, greater 
than any speech. The intelligence that can, with full satisfaction 
to itself, come out in eloquent speaking, in musical singing, is, 
after all, a small intelligence. He that works and does some 
poem, not he that merely says one, is worthy of the name of poet. 
Cromwell, emblem of the dumb English, is interesting to me by 
the very inadequacy of his speech. Heroic insight, valor, and 
belief, without words, — how noble is it in comparison to eloquent 
words without heroic insight ! I have corrected the spelling of 
these letters ; I have punctuated, and divided them into para- 
graphs, in the modern manner. The originals, so far as I have 
seen such, have, in general, no paragraphs. If the letter is short, 
it is usually found written on the first leaf of the sheet ; often 
with the conclusion, or some postscript, subjoined crosswise on the 
margin, indicating that there was no blotting-paper in those 
days; that the hasty writer was loath to turn the leaf Oliver's 
spelling and printing are of the sort common to educated persons 
in his time ; and readers that wish it may have specimens of him 
in abundance, and of all due dimness, in many printed books : 
but to us, intent here to have the letters read and understood, it 
seemed very proper at once and altogether to get rid of that 
encumbrance. Would the rest were all as easily got rid of! 
Here and there, to bring out the struggling sense, I have added or 
rectified a word, but taken care to point out the same. What 
words in the text of the letters are mine, the reader will find 
marked off by single commas : it was, of course, my supreme duty 
to avoid altering in any respect, not onl}^ the sense, but the small- 
est feature in the physiognomy of the original. And so " a mini- 
mum of annotation" having been added, — what minimum would 
serve the purpose, — here are " The Letters and Speeches of Oliver 
Cromwell ; " of which the reader, with my best wishes, but not 
witji any very high immediate hope of mine in that particular, is 
to make what he can. 



358 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Surely it was far enough from probable that these letters of 
Cromwell, written originally for quite other objects, and selected, 
not by the genius of history, but by blind accident, which has 
saved them hitherto, and destroyed the rest, can illuminate for 
a modern man this period of our annals, which for all moderns, 
we may say, has become a gulf of bottomless darkness. Not so 
easily will the modern man domesticate himself in a scene of 
things every way so foreign to him. Nor could any measurable 
exposition of mine on this present occasion do much to illuminate 
the dead dark world of the seventeenth century, into which the 
reader is about to enter. He will gradually get to understand, as 
I have said, that the seventeenth century did exist ; that it was 
not a waste rubbish - continent of Kushworth - Nalson state- 
papers, of philosophical skepticisms, dilettanteisms, Dryasdust 
torpedoisms, but an actual flesh-and-blood fact, with color in 
its cheeks, with awful august heroic thoughts in its heart, and at 
last with steel sword in its hand. Theoretically this is a most 
small postulate conceded at once by everybody ; but practically 
it is a very large one, seldom or never conceded : the due practi- 
cal conceding of it amounts to much, indeed, — to the sure promise 
of all. I will venture to give the reader two little pieces of advice, 
which, if his experience resemble mine, may prove furthersome to 
him in this inquiry : they exclude the essence of all that I have 
discovered respecting it. 

The first is. By no means to credit the widespread report, that 
these seventeenth-century Puritans were superstitious, crackbrained 
persons ; given up to enthusiasm, the most part of them ; the 
minor ruling part being cunning men, who knew how to assume 
the dialect of the others, and thereby, as skillful Machiavels, to 
dupe them. This is a widespread report, but an untrue one. I 
advise my reader to try precisely the opposite hj^pothesis, — to 
consider that his fathers, who had thought about this world very 
seriously indeed, and with very considerable thinking faculty 
indeed, were not quite so far behindhand in their conclusions 
respecting it; that actually their enthusiasms, if well seen 
into, were not foolish, but wise ; that Machiavelism, cant, official 
jargon, whereby a man speaks openly what he does not mean, 
were, surprising as it may seem, much rarer then than they have 
ever since been. E-eally and truly it may in a manner be said, 
cant, parliamentary and other jargon, were still to invent in this 
world. heavens ! one could weep at the contrast. Cant was 
not fashionable at all ; that stupendous invention of '• speech for 
the purpose of concealing thought " was not yet made. A man 
wagging the tongue of him as if it were the clapper of a bell to 
be rung for economic purposes, and not so much as attempting to 
convey any inner thought, if thought he have, of the matter 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 359 

talked of, would at that date have awakened all the horror in 
men's minds, which at all dates, and at this date too, is due to 
him. The accursed thing ! ISTo man as yet dared to do it ; all 
men believing that God would judge them. In the history of the 
Civil War far and wide, I have not fallen in with one such 
phenomenon. Even Archbishop Laud and Peter Hevlin meant 
what they say : through their words do you look direct into the 
scraggy conviction they have formed ; or, if " lying Peter " do 
lie, he at least knows that he is lying. Lord Clarendon, a man 
of sufficient unveracity of heart, to whom, indeed, whatsoever has 
direct veracity of heart is more or less horrible, speaks always in 
official language, — a clothed, nay sometimes even quilted dialect, 
yet always with some considerate body in the heart of it, never 
with none. The use of the human tongue was then other than it 
now is. I counsel the reader to leave all that of cant, dupery, 
Machiavelism, and so forth, decisive^ lying at the threshold. He 
will be wise to believe that these Puritans do mean what they 
say, and to try unimpeded if he can discover what that is. 
Gradually a very stupendous phenomenon may rise on his 
astonished eye, — a practical w^orld based on belief in God ; such 
as many centuries had seen before, but as never any century since 
has been privileged to see. It was the last glimpse of it in our 
world, this of English Puritanism ; very great, very glorious ; 
tragical enough to all thinking hearts that look on it from these 
days of ours. My second advice is, Not to imagine that it was 
constitution, " liberty of the people to tax themselves," privilege 
of parliament, triennial or annual parliaments, or any modification 
of these sublime privileges now waxing somewhat faint in our 
admirations, that mainly animated Cromwells, Pyms, and Hamp- 
dens to the heroic efforts we still admire in retrospect ; not these 
very measurable " privileges," but a far other and deeper, which 
could not be measured, of which these, and all grand social im- 
provements whatsoever, are the corollary. Our ancient Puritan 
reformers were, as all reformers that will ever much benefit this 
earth are always, inspired by a heavenly purpose. To see God's 
own law, then universally acknowledged for complete as it stood in 
the holy written book, made good in this world ; to see this, or the 
true unwearied aim and struggle towards this, — it was a thing 
worth living for and dying for. Eternal justice, — that God's Avill 
be done on earth as it is in heaven : corollaries enough will flow 
from that; if that be not there, no corollary good for much will flow. 
It was the general spirit of England in the seventeenth century. 
In other somewhat sadly disfigured form, we have seen the same 
immortal hope take practical shape in the Erench Revolution, and 
once more astonish the world. That England should all become a 
church, if you like to name it so ; a church presided over, not by 



360 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

sliam-priests in "four surplices at Allliallowtide," but by true God- 
consecrated ones, whose hearts the Most High had touched and 
hallowed with" his fire, — this was the prayer of many : it was the 
Godlike hope and effort of some. 

Our modern methods of reform differ somewhat, as, indeed, 
the issue testifies. I will advise my reader to forget the modern 
methods of reform ; not to remember that he has ever heard of a 
modern individual called by the name of reformer, if he would 
understand what the old meaning of the word was. The Crom- 
wells, Pyms, Hampdens, who were understood on the Eoyalist 
side to be firebrands of the Devil, have had still worse measure 
from the Dryasdust philosophies and skeptical histories of later 
times. They really did resemble firebrands of the Devil, if you 
looked at them through spectacles of a certain color ; for fire is 
always fire. But by no spectacles, only by mere blinders and 
wooden-eyed spctacles, can the flame-girt heaven's messenger pass 
for a moldy pedant and constitution-monger, such as this would 
make him out to be. 

On the whole, say not, good reader, as is often done, " It was 
then all one as now." Good reader, it w^as considerably different 
then from now. Men indolently'- say, " The ages are all alike ; 
ever the same sorry elements over again in new vesture ; the 
issue of it always a melancholy farce-tragedy in one age as in 
another." Wherein lies very obviouslj^ a truth ; but also in secret 
a very sad error withal. Sure enough, the highest life touches 
always, by large sections of it, on the vulgar and universal : he 
that expects to see a hero, or an heroic age, step forth into practice 
in yellow Drury-lane stage-boots, and speak in blank verse for 
itself, will look long in vain. Sure enough, in the heroic century, 
as in the unheroic, knaves and cowards, and cunning, greecl}^ 
persons, were not wanting, — were, if you will, extremely abun- 
dant. But the question always remains. Did they lie chained, 
subordinate in this world's business, coerced by steel whips, or in 
whatever other effectual way, and sent wdiimpering into their due 
subterranean abodes to beat hemp and repent, — a true never- 
ending attempt going on to handcuff, to silence and suppress 
them ? Or did they walk openly abroad, the envy of a general 
valet-population, and bear swa}^ ; professing, without universal 
anathema, almost with general assent, that they were the orthodox 
party ; that they, even they, were such men as you had right to 
look for ? 

Reader, the ages differ greatly, even infinitely, from one 
another. Considerable tracts of ages there have been, by far the 
majority indeed, wherein the men, unfortunate mortals, were a 
set of mimetic creatures rather than men ; without heart-insight 
as to this universe, and its bights and its abysses ; without 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 361 

conviction or belief of their own regarding it at all ; who 
walked merely b}^ hearsays, traditionary cants, black and white 
surplices, and inane confusions ; whose whole existence, accord- 
ingly, was a grimace ; nothing original in it, nothing genuine or 
sincere but this only, — their greediness of appetite, and their 
faculty of digestion. Such unhappy ages, too numerous here 
below, the genius of mankind indignantly seizes as disgraceful to 
the family, and with E-hadamanthine ruthlessness annihilates ; 
tumbles large masses of them swiftly into eternal night. These 
are the unheroic ages, which can not serve on the general field of 
existence, except as dust, as inorganic manure. The memory of 
such ages fades away for ever out of the minds of all men. Why 
should any memory of them continue ? The fashion of them has 
passed away ; and as for genuine substance, they never had any. 
To no heart of a man any more can these ages become lovely. 
Wliat melodious loving heart will search into their records, will 
sing of them, or celebrate them? Even torpid Dryasdust is 
forced to give over at last ; all creatures declining to hear him on 
that subject : whereupon ensue composure and silence, and Oblivion 
has her own. 

Good reader, if you be wise, search not for the secret of heroic 
ages, which have done great things in this earth, among their 
falsities, their greedy quackeries and unheroisms. It never lies, 
and never will lie, there. Knaves and quacks — alas ! we know 
they abounded; but the age was heroic, even because it had 
declared war to the death with these, and would have neither 
truce nor treaty with these ; and went forth, -flame-crowned, as 
with bared sword, and called the Most High to witness that it 
would not endure these. But now for the letters of Cromwell 
themselves. 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 

1786-1859. 

Author of "The Confessions of an English Opium-Eater;" " Suspiria de Pro- 
fundis," a sequel to the " Confessions;" and other essays of remiirkable eloquence, 
and beauty of style. 



THE PALIMPSEST. 



You know perhaps, masculine reader, better than I can tell 
you, what is a palimpsest : possibly you have one in your own 
library. But yet, for the sake of others who may not know, or 
may have forgotten, suffer me to explain it here, lest any female 



362 ENGLISH LITERATCTKE. 

reader who honors these papers with her notice should tax me 
with exjDlaining it once too seldom ; which would be worse to bear 
than a simultaneous complaint from twelve proud men, that I had 
explained it three times too often. You, therefore, fair reader, 
understand, that for your accommodation exclusively I explain 
the meaning of this word. It is Greek; and our sex enjoys the 
office and privilege of standing counsel to jowv^ in all questions 
of Grreek. We are, under favor, perpetual and hereditary drago- 
mans to you: so that, if by accident you know the meaning of 
a Greek word, yet, b}^ courtesy to us, your counsel learned in that 
matter, you will always seem not to know it. 

A palimpsest, then, is a membrane, or roll, cleansed of its manu- 
script by reiterated successions. 

What was the reason that the Greeks and the Romans had not 
the advantage of printed books ? The answer will be from 
ninety-nine persons in a hundred, " Because the mystery of 
printing was not then discovered." But this is altogether a mis- 
take. The secret of printing must have been discovered many 
thousands of times before it was used, or could be used. The in- 
ventive powers of man are divine ; and also his stupidity is divine, 
as Cowper so playfully illustrates in the slow development of the 
sofa through successive generations of immortal dullness. It took 
centuries of blockheads to raise a joint stool into a chair; and it 
required something like a miracle of genius, in the estimate of 
elder generations, to reveal the possibilitj^ of lengthening a 
chair into a chaise-longue, or a sofa. Yes, these were inventions 
that cost mighty throes of intellectual power. But still, as 
respects printing, and admirable as is the stupidity of man, it was 
really not quite equal to the task of evading an object which 
stared him in the face with so broad a gaze. It did not require an 
Athenian intellect to read the main secret of printing in many 
scores of processes which the ordinar}^ uses of life were daily 
repeating. To say nothing of analogous artifices amongst various 
mechanic artisans, all that is essential in printing must have been 
known to ever}'' nation that struck coins and medals. Not, there- 
fore, any want of a printing art, — that is, of an art for multipljang 
impressions, — but the want of a cheap material for receiving 
such impressions, was the obstacle to an introduction of printed 
books, even as early as Pisistratus. The ancients did apply 
printing to records of silver and gold : to marble, and many other 
substances cheaper than gold and silver, they did not, since each 
monument required a separate eifort of inscription. Simply this 
defect it w^as — of a cheap material for receiving impresses — 
which froze in its very fountains the earl}^ resources of printing. 

Some twenty years ago, this view of the case was luminously 
expounded by Dr. Whately, the present Archbishop of Dublin, 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 363 

and with the merit, I believe, of having first suggested it. Since 
then, this theory has received indirect confirmation. Now, out of 
that original scarcity affecting all materials proper for durable 
books, which continued up to times comparatively modern, grew 
the opening for palimpsests. Naturally, when once a roll of 
parchment or of vellum had done its office, by propagating 
through a series of generations what once had possessed an 
interest for them, but which, under changes of opinion or 
of taste, had faded to their feelings, or had become obsolete 
for their undertakings, the whole memhrana, or vellum-skin, — 
the twofold product of • human skill, costly material, and 
costly freight of thought which it carried, — drooped in value 
concurrently, supjDosing that each were inalienably associated 
to the other. Once it had been the impress of a human mind 
which stamped its value upon the vellum : the vellum, though 
costly, had contributed but a secondary element of value to the 
total result. At length, however, this relation between the vehicle 
and its freight has gradually been undermined. The vellum, from 
having been the setting of the jewel, has risen at length to be the 
jewel itself: and the burden of thought, from having given the 
chief value to the vellum, has now become the chief obstacle to its 
value ; nay, has totally extinguished its value, unless it can be 
dissociated from the connection. Yet if this unlinking can be 
effected, then, fast as the inscription upon the membrane is 
sinking into rubbish, the membrane itself is reviving in its 
separate importance ; and, from bearing a ministerial value, the 
vellum has come at last to absorb the whole value. 

Hence the importance for our ancestors that the separation 
should be effected. Hence it arose in the middle ages, as a con- 
siderable object for chemistry, to discharge the writing from the 
roll, and thus to make it available for a new succession of 
thoughts. The soil, if cleansed from what once had been hot- 
house plants, but now were held to be weeds, would be ready to 
receive a fresh and more appropriate crop. In that object the 
monkish chemist succeeded, but after a fashion which seems 
almost incredible, — incredible not as regards the extent of their 
success, but as regards the delicacy of restraints under which it 
moved ; so equally adjusted was their success to the immediate 
interests of that period and to the reversionary objects of our 
own. They did the thing, but not so radically as to jDrevent us 
their posterity from ^^«doing it. They expelled the writing 
sufficiently to leave a field for the new manuscript, and yet not 
sufficiently to make the traces of the elder manuscript irrecover- 
able for us. Could magic, could Hermes Trismegistus, have 
done more ? What would you think, fair reader, of a problem 
such as this ? — to write a book which should be sense for your 



364 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

own generation, nonsense for the next, should revive into sense 
for the next after that, but again become nonsense for the fourth ; 
and so on by alternate successions, sinking into night or blazing 
into day, like the Sicilian river Arethusa, and the English river 
Mole ; or like the undulating motions of a flattened stone 
which children cause to skim the breast of a river, now diving 
below the water, now grazing its surface, sinking heavily into 
darkness, rising buoyantly into light, througli a long vista of 
alternations. Such a problem, you say, is impossible. But really 
it is a problem not harder, apparently, than to bid a generation 
kill, but so that a subsequent generation may call back into life; 
bury, but so that posterity may command to rise again. Yet that 
was what the rude chemistry of past ages effected when coming 
into combination with the re-action from the more refined 
chemistry of our own. Had they been better chemists, had ive 
been worse, the mixed result — namely, that, dying for tliem, the 
flower should revive for us — could not have been effected. They 
did the thing proposed to them ; they did it effectually^ ; for they 
founded upon it all that w^as wanted: and yet ineffectually, since 
we unraveled their work, effacing all above which they had super- 
scribed, restoring all below which they had effaced. 

Here, for instance, is a parchment which contained some 
Grecian tragedj^, — the " Agamemnon " of ^schjdus or the 
"Phoenissse" of Euripides. This had possessed a value almost 
inappreciable in the e^^es of accomplished scholars, continually 
growing rarer through generations. But four centuries are gone 
by since the destruction of the Western Empire. Cliristianity, 
with towering grandeurs of another class, has founded a different 
empire ; and some bigoted yet perhaps ho\j monk has washed 
away (as he persuades himself) the heathen's tragedy, replacing it 
with a monastic legend ; which legend is disfigured with fables in 
its incidents, and yet in a higher sense is true, because interwoven 
with Christian morals, and with the sublimest of Christian 
revelations. Three, four, five centuries more find man still 
devout as ever : but the language has become obsolete ; and even 
for Christian devotion a new era has arisen, throwing it into the 
channel of crusading zeal or of chivalrous enthusiasm. The viem- 
hrana is wanted now for a knightly romance, — for " my Cid," or 
Coeur de Lion; for Sir Tristrem, or L^^baeus Disconus. In this 
way, by means of the imperfect chemistry known to the mediaeval 
jjeriod, tlie same roll has served as a conservatory for three sej^a- 
rate generations of flowers and fruits ; all perfectly different, 
and yet all specially adapted to the wants of tlie successive 
possessors. The Greek tragedy, the monkish legend, the knightly 
romance, — each has ruled its own period. One harvest after 
another has been gathered into the garners of man through ages 



THOMAS DE QUINCE Y. 865 

far apart ; and the same hydraulic machinery has distrihnted, 
tlirougb the same marble fountains, water, milk, or wine, accord- 
ing to the habits and training of the generations that came to 
quench their thirst. 

Such were the achievements of rude monastic chemistry. But 
the more elaborate chemistry of our own days has reversed all 
these motions of our simple ancestors, which results in every stage 
that to them would have realized the most fantastic amongst the 
promises of -thaumaturgy. Insolent vaunt of Paracelsus, that he 
would restore tlie original rose or violet out of the ashes settling 
from its combustion ! — that is now rivaled in this modern achieve- 
ment. The traces of each , successive handwriting, regularly 
effaced, as had been imagined, have, in the inverse order, been 
regularly called back ; the footsteps of the game pursued — wolf or 
stag — in each several chase have been unlinked, and hunted back 
through all their doubles : and as tlie chorus of the Athenian 
stage unwove througli the antistrophe every step that had been 
mystically woven through the strophe, so, by our modern con- 
jurations of science, secrets of ages remote from each other have 
been exorcised from the accumulated shadows of centuries. 
Chemistry, a witch as potent as the Erictho of Lucanto ("Phar- 
salia," lib. vi. or vii.), has extorted by her torments from the 
dust and ashes of forgotten centuries the secrets of a life extinct 
for the general ej'e, but still glowing in the embers. Even the 
fable of the phcenix — that secular bird, who propagated his 
solitary existence and his solitary births along the line of 
centuries through eternal relays of funeral mists — is but a type 
of what we have done with palimpsests. We have backed upon 
each phoenix in the long regressus, and forced him to expose his 
ancestral phoenix sleeping in the ashes below his own ashes. 
Our good old forefathers would have been aghast at our sorce- 
ries ; and, if they speculated on the propriety of burning Dr. 
Faustus, us they would have burned by acclamation. Trial there 
would have been none ; and they could not otherwise have satis- 
fied their horror of the brazen profligacy marking our modern 
magic than by plowing up the houses of all who had been 
parties to it, and sowing the ground with salt. 

Fancy not, reader, that this tumult of images, illustrative or 
allusive, moves under any impulse or purpose of mirth. It is but 
the coruscation of a restless understanding, often made ten times 
more so by irritation of the nerves, such as you will first learn to 
comprehend (its how and its ichy) some stage or two ahead. The 
image, the memorial, the record, which for me is derived from a 
palimpsest, as to one great fact in our human being, and Avhicli 
immediately I will show you, is but too repellent of laughter; or, 
even if laughter had been possible, it would liave been such 



366 EKGLISH LITERATUIIE. 

laughter as oftentimes is thrown oif from the fields of ocean, — 
laughter that hides, or that seems to evade mustering tumult ; 
foam-bells that weave garlands of phosphoric radiance for one 
moment round the eddies of gleaming abysses ; mimicries of 
earth-born flowers that for the eye raise phantoms of gayety, as 
oftentimes for the ear they raise the echoes of fugitive laughter, 
mixing with tho ravings and choir-voices of an angry sea. 

What else than a natural and mighty palimpsest is the human 
brain ? Such a palimpsest is my brain ; such a palimpsest, O 
reader! is yours. Everlasting layers of ideas, images, feelings, 
have fallen upon your brain softly as light. Each succession has 
seemed to bury all that went before ; and jet, in reality, not one 
has been extinguished. And if in the vellum palimpsest, lying 
amongst the other diplo?nata of human archives or libraries, there 
is any thing fantastic, or wliich moves to laughter, as oftentimes 
there is in the grotesque collisions of those successive themes, 
having no natural connection, which by pure accident have con- 
secutively occupied the roll, yet in our oYn\ heaven-created 
palimpsest, the deep memorial palimpsest of the brain, there are 
not, and can not be, such incoherences. The fleeting accidents of 
a man's life, and its external shows, may indeed be irrelate 
and incongruous ; but the organizing principles which fuse into 
harmony, and gather about fixed predetermined centers, whatever 
heterogeneous elements life may have accumulated from without, 
will not permit the grandeur of human unity greatl}'- to be violated, 
or its ultimate repose to be troubled, in the retrospect from dying 
moments, or from other great convulsions. 

Such a convulsion is the struggle of gradual suffocation, as in 
drowning ; and, in the original " Opium Confessions," I mentioned 
a case of that nature, communicated to me by a lady from her 
own childish experience. The lady is still living, though now of 
unusually great age : and I may mention, that amongst her faults 
never was numbered any levity of principle, or carelessness of the 
most scrupulous veracity, but, on the contrary, such faults as 
arise from austerity, too harsh, perhaps, and glooni}^, indidgent 
neither to others nor herself; and at the time of relating this 
incident, when already very old, she had become religious to 
asceticism. According to my present belief, she had completed 
her ninth year, when, playing by the side of a solitary brook, she 
fell into one of its deepest pools. Eventually, but after what 
lapse of time nobody ever knew, she was saved from death by a 
farmer, who, riding in some distant lane, had seen her rise to the 
surface ; but not until she had descended within the ab^^ss of 
death, and looked into its secrets, as far, perhaps, as ever human 
eye can have looked, that had permission to return. At a certain 
stage of this descent, a blow seemed to strike her; phosphoric 



THOMAS DE QUINCEY. 367 

radiance sprang forth from her eyeballs; and immediately a 
mighty theater expanded within her brain. In a moment, in the 
twinkling of an eye, eA^ery act, every design, of her past life, lived 
again, arraying themselves, not as a succession, but as parts of a 
co-existence. Such a light fell upon the whole path of her life 
backwards into the shades of infancy as the light, perhaps, which 
wrapped the destined apostle on his road to Damascus. Yet that 
light blinded for a season ; but hers poured celestial vision upon 
the brain, so that her consciousness became omnipresent at one 
moment to every feature in the infinite review. 

This anecdote was treated skeptically at the time by some 
critics ; but besides that it has since been confirmed by other expe- 
rience essentially the same, reported by other parties in the same 
circumstances, who had never heard of each other, the true point 
for astonishment is not the simultaneity of arrangement under 
which the past events of life, though in fact successive, had formed 
their dread line of revelation. This w^as but a secondary phe- 
nomenon: the deeper lay in the resurrection itself, and the possi- 
bility of resurrection, for what had so long slept in the dust. A 
pall, deep as oblivion, had been thrown by life over every trace of 
these experiences ; and yet suddenly, at a silent command, at the 
signal of a blazing rocket sent up from the brain, the pall draws 
up, and the whole depths of the theater are exposed. Here 
was the greater mystery. Now, this mystery is liable to no doubt ; 
for it is repeated, and ten thousand times repeated, by opium, for 
those who are its martyrs. 

Yes, reader, countless are the mysterious handwritings of grief 
or joy which have inscribed themselves successively upon the 
palimpsest of your brain ; and like the annual leaves of aborigi- 
nal forests, or the undissolving snows on the Himalaya, or light 
falling upon light, the endless strata have covered up each other 
in forgetfulness. But by the hour of death, but by fever, but by 
the searchings of opium, all these can revive in strength : they are 
not dead, but sleeping. In the illustration imagined by myself 
from the case of some individual palimpsest, the Grecian tragedy 
had seemed to be displaced, but was not displaced, by the monkish 
legend ; and the monkish legend had seemed to be displaced, but 
was not displaced, by the knightly romance. In some potent con- 
vulsion of the system, all wheels back into its earliest elementary 
stage. The bewildering romance, light tarnished with darkness, 
the semi-fabulous legend, truth celestial mixed with human false- 
hoods, — these fade even of themselves as life advances. The 
romance has perished that the young man adored; the legend has 
gone that deluded the boy : but the deep, deep tragedies of 
infancy, as when the child's hands were unlinked for ever from his 
mother's neck, or his lips for ever from his sister's kisses, — these 



368 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

remain lurking below all ; and these lurk to the last. Alchemy 
there is none of passion or disease that can scorch away these 
immortal iuipresses; and the dream which closed the preceding 
section, together with the succeeding dreams of this (which may 
be viewed as in the nature of choruses winding up the overture 
contained in Part I.), are but illustrations of this truth, such 
as every man, probably, will meet experimentally, who passes 
through similar convulsions of dreaming or delirium from any 
similar or equal disturbance in his nature.* 



CHARLES LAMB. 

1775-1835. 

Humorous, witty, genial; essayist and critic; author of "Essays by Ella, 
*' John Woodvil," " Tales founded on the Plays of Shakspeare," and a few poems. 



A QUAKERS' MEETING. 

" Still-born Silence ! thou that ai-t 
Floodgate of the deeper heart! 
Offspring of a heavenly kind ! 
Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind ! 
Secrecy's confidant, and he 
Who makes religion mystery ! 
Admiration's speaking' .st tongue ! 
Leave, thy desert shades among, 
Eeverend hermits' hallowed cells, 
Where retired devotion dwells : 
With thy enthusiasms come, 
Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb ! " t 

Beader, wouldst thou know what true peace and quiet mean ; 
wouldst thou find a refuge from the noises and clamors of the 
multitude ; wouldst thou enjoy at once solitude and society ; 
wouldst thou possess the depth of thine own spirit in stillness, 
without being shut out from the consolatory faces of thy species ; 
wouldst thou be alone, and yet accompanied; solitary, yet not 

* This, it may he said, requires a corresponding duration of experience ; but, as an 
argument for this mysterious power lurking in our nature, I may remind the reader of 
one phenomenon open to the notice of everybody; namely, the tendency of very aged 
persons to throwback and concentrate the light of their memory upon scenes of early 
childhood, as to which they recall many traces that had faded even to tJiemseh-es in 
middle life, whilst they often forget altogether the whole intermediate stages of their 
experience. This shows that naturally, and without violent agencies, the human brain 
is by tendency a palimpsest. 

t From Poems of all Sorts, by Richard Flecknoe, 1653. 



CHABLES LAMB. 369 

desolate ; singular, yet not without some to keep thee in counte- 
nance ; a unit in aggregate, a simple in composite : come with 
me into a Quakers' meeting. 

Dost thou love silence deep as that " hefore the winds were 
made : " go not out into the wilderness ; descend not into 
the profundities of the earth ; shut not up thy casements, 
nor pour wax into the little cells of thine ears, with little- 
faithed, self-mistrusting Ulysses : retire with me into a Quakers' 
meeting. 

For a man to refrain even from good words, and to hold 
his peace, it is commendable ; hut, for a multitude, it is great 
mastery. 

What is the stillness of the desert compared with this place ? 
what the uncommunicating muteness of fishes ? Here the 
goddess reigns and revels. " Boreas and Cesias and Argestes 
loud " do not with their inter-confounding uproars more augment 
the brawl — nor the waves of the blown Baltic with their clubbed 
sounds — than their opposite (Silence her sacred self) is multi- 
plied and rendered more intense by numbers and by sympathy. 
iShe, too, hath her deeps that call unto deeps. Negation itself hath 
a positive more and less ; and closed eyes would seem to obscure 
the great obscurity of midnight. 

There are wounds which an imperfect solitude can not heal. By 
imperfect, I mean that which a man enjoyeth by himself. The 
perfect is that which he can sometimes attain in crowds, but 
nowhere so absolutely as in a Quakers' meeting. Those first 
hermits did certainly understand tliis principle when they re- 
tired into Egyptian solitudes, not singly, but in shoals, to enjoy 
one another's want of conversation. The Carthusian is bound to 
his brethren by this agreeing spirit of incommunicativeness. 
In secular occasions, what so pleasant as to be reading a book 
through a long winter evening with a friend sitting by, — say, 
a wife, — he or she, too (if that be probable), reading another, 
without interruption or oral communication? Can there be 
no sympathy without the gabble of words ? Away with this 
inhuman, shy, single, shade -and -cavern -hunting solitariness! 
Give me. Master Zimmerman, a sympathetic solitude ! 

To pace alone in the cloisters or side-aisles of some cathedral, 

time-stricken, 

'' Oi- nnder hanging mountains, 
Or by the fall of fountains," 

is but a "^Tilgar luxury compared with that which those enjoy 
who come to:^ether for the purposes of more complete, abstracted 
solitude. This is the loneliness " to be felt." The Abbey Church 
of Westminster hath nothing so solemn, so spirit-soothing, as the 

24 



370 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

naked walls and benches of a Quakers' meeting. Here are no 
tombs, no inscriptions, 

" Sands, i^d^noble things, 
Dropped from the ruined sides of kings; " 

but here is something which throws Antiquity herself into 
the foreground, — Silexce, eldest of things, language of old 
Night, primitive Discourser, to which the .insolent decays of 
moldering grandeur have but arrived by a violent, and, as vre 
may say, unnatural progression. 

*' How reverend is the view of these hushed heads, 
Looking tranquillity ! " 

Nothing - plotting, naught - caballing, unmischievous synod ! 
convocation without intrigue! parliament without debate! what 
a lesson dost thou read to council and to consistory ! If my 
pen treat of you lightly (as, haply, it will wander), yet my 
spirit hath gravely felt the wisdom of your custom, when, sitting 
among you in deepest peace, which some out-welling tears would 
rather confirm than disturb, I have reverted to the times of your 
beginnings, and the sowing of the seed by Fox and Dewesbury. 
I have witnessed that which brought before my eyes your heroic 
tranquillity, inflexible to the rude jests and serious violences of 
the insolent soldiery (Republican or Koyalist) sent to molest you ; 
for ye sat betwixt the fires of two persecutions, — the outcast and 
offscouring of church and presbytery. I have seen the reeling 
sea-ruffian, who had wandered into your receptacle with the 
avowed intention of disturbing your quiet, from the very spirit of 
the place receive in a moment a new heart, and presently sit 
among ye as a lamb amid lambs. And I remember Penn before 
his accusers, and Fox in the bail-dock, where he was lifted up in 
spirit, as he tells us, and "the judge and the jury became as dead 
men under his feet." 

E,eader, if you are not acquainted with it, I would recommend 
to you, above all church-narratives, to read Sewel's " Historj^ of 
the Quakers." It is in folio, and is the abstract of the journals 
of Fox and the primitive Friends. It is far more edifj^ing 
and affecting than any thing you will read of Wesley and his 
colleagues. Here is nothing to stagger you, nothing to make 
you mistrust, no suspicion of alloy, no drop or dreg of the 
worldly or ambitious spirit. You will here read the true story of 
that much-injured, ridiculed man (who perhaps hath been a by- 
word in your moutli), James Naylor. AVhat dreadful sufferings, 
with what patience, he endured, even to the boring-through of 
his tongue with red-hot irons, without a murmur ! and with what 
strength of mind, when the delusion he had fallen into, which 



CHARLES LAMB. 371 

tliej stigmatized for blasphemy, had given way to clearer 
thoughts, he could renounce his error in a strain of the 
beautifulest humility, yet keep his first grounds, and be a 
Quaker still ! — so different from the practice of your comrjoon 
converts from enthusiasm, who, when they apostatize, apostatixe 
all, and think the}^ can never get far enough from the society 
of their former errors, even to tlie renunciation of some saving 
truths with which they liad been mingled, not implicated. 

Get the writings of John Woolman by heart, and love the 
early Quakers. 

How far the followers of these good men in our days have kept 
to the primitive spirit, or in what proportion they have substituted 
formality for it, the Judge of spirits can alone determine. I have 
seen faces in their assemblies upon which the Dove sat visibly 
brooding; others, again, I have watched, when my thoughts 
should have been better engaged, in which I could possibly detect 
nothing but a blank inanity: but quiet was in all, and the dis- 
position to unanimity, and the absence of the fierce controversial 
workings. If the spiritual pretensions of the Quakers have 
abated, at least they make few pretenses. Hypocrites they cer- 
tainly are not in their preaching. It is seldom, indeed, that you 
shall see one get up among them to hold forth. Only now and 
then a trembling female (generally ancient) voice is heard, — you 
can not guess from what part of the meeting it proceeds, — with a 
low, buzzing, musical sound, laying out a few words which '^ she 
thought might suit the condition of some present," with a quaking 
diffidence, which leaves no possibility of supposing that any thing 
of female vanity was mixed up where the tones were so full of 
tenderness and a restraining modesty. The men, for what I 
have observed, speak seldomer. 

More frequentl}^, the meeting is broken up without a word 
having been spoken : but the mind has been fed ; you go away 
with a sermon not made with hands. You have been in the 
milder caverns of Trophonius, or as in some den where that 
fiercest and savagest of all wild creatures, the Toxgue, that 
unruly member, has strangely lain tied up and captive. You 
have bathed with stillness. Oh, when the spirit is sore fretted, 
even tired to sickness of the j anglings and nonsense-noises of the 
world, what a balm and a solace it is to go and seat j^ourself for a 
quiet half-hour, upon some undisputed corner of a bench, among 
the gentle Quakers ! 

Their garb and stillness conjoined present a uniformity, 
tranquil and herdlike, as in the pasture, — " forty feeding like 
one." 

The very garments of the Quaker seem incapable of receiving a 
soil, and cleanliness in them to be something more than the absence 



372 . ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of its contrary. Every Quakeress is a lily ; and when tliey come 
up in bands to their Whitsun-conferences, whitening the easterly 
streets of the metropolis, from all parts of the United Kingdom, 
they show like troops of the Shining Ones. 



THE TWO RACES OF MEN. 

The human species, according to the best theory I can form of 
it, is composed of two distinct races, — the men who borrow, and 
the men to ho lend. To these two original diversities may be reduced 
all those impertinent classifications of Gothic and Celtic tribes, 
white men, black men, red men. All the dwellers upon earth — 
"Farthians and Medes and Elamites" — flock hitber, and do 
naturally fall in with one or other of these primary distinctions. 
The infinite superiority of the former, which I choose to designate 
as the great race, is discernible in their figure, port, and a certain 
instinctive sovereignty. The latter are born degraded: "He 
shall serve his brethren." There is something in the air of one of 
this cast, lean and suspicious, contrasting with the open, trusting, 
generous manners of the other. 

Observe who have been the greatest borrowers of all ages, — 
Alcibiades, Falstaff, Sir Kicliard Steele, our late incomparable 
Brinsley, — what a family likeness in all four ! 

What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower ! What 
rosy gills ! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he mani- 
fest ! — taking no more thought than lilies. What contempt for 
money, accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better tlian 
dross ! What a liberal confounding of those pedantic distinctions 
of meiun and tuum I or, rather, what a noble simplification of 
language (beyond Tooke), resolving these supposed opposites into 
one clear, intelligible pronoun-adjective ! What near approaches 
doth he make to the primitive community! — to the extent of one- 
half of the principle at least. 

He is the true taxer who " calleth all the world up to be 
taxed ; " and the distance is as vast between him and one of us 
as subsisted between the Augustan Majesty and the poorest 
obolary Jew that paid it tribute-jDittance at Jerusalem. His 
exactions, too, have such a cheerful, voluntary air ! so far removed 
from your sour parochial or state-gatherers, — those ink-horn 
varlets who carry their want of welcome in their faces ! He 
Cometh to you with a smile, and troubleth you with no receipt ; 
confining himself to no set season. Every day is his Candlemas, 
or his feast of holy Michael. He applieth the lene tormentum of 
a pleasant look to your purse, which to that gentle warmth ex- 
pands her silken leaves as naturally as the cloak of the traveler, 



CHARLES LAMB. 873 

for which sun and wind contended. He is the true Propontis, 
which never ebbeth ; the sea, which taketh handsomely at each 
man's hand. In vain the victim whom he delightetli to Jionor 
struggles with destiny : he is in the net. Lend, therefore, cheer- 
fully, man ! ordained to lend, that thou lose not in the end, 
with thy worldly penny, the reversion promised. Combine not 
preposterously in thine own person the penalties of Lazarus and 
of Dives, but, when thou seest the projDer authority coming, 
meet it smilingly, as it were half way. Come, a handsome sacri- 
fice ! See how light he makes of it ! Strain not courtesies with 
a noble enemy. 

Reflections like the foregoing were forced upon my mind by 
the death of my old friend, Ralph Bigod, Esq., who parted this 
life on Wednesday evening, dying as he had lived, without much 
trouble. He boasted himself a descendant from mighty ancestors 
of that name, who heretofore held ducal dignities in this realm. 
In his actions and sentiments, he belied not the stock to which he 
pretended. Early in life, he found himself invested with ample 
revenues, which, with that noble disinterestedness which I have 
noticed as inherent in men of the great race, he took almost 
immediate measures entirely to dissipate, and bring to nothing: 
for there is something revolting in the idea of a king holding a 
private purse ; and the thoughts of Bigod were all regal. Thus 
furnished by the very act of disfurnishment ; getting rid of the 
cumbersome luggage of riches ; more apt (as one sings) 

" To sLicken Virtue, and abate her edge, 
Thau prompt her to do aught may merit praise," — 

he set forth, like some Alexander, upon his great enterprise, — 
"borrowing and to borrow." 

In his periegesis, or triumphant progress, throughout this 
island, it has been calculated that he laid a tithe part of the in- 
habitants under contribution. I reject this estimate as greatly 
exaggerated; but, having had the honor of accompan3dng my 
friend divers times in his perambulations about this vast city, I 
own I was greatly struck at first with the prodigious number of 
faces we met who claimed a sort of respectful acquaintance with 
us. He was one day so obliging as to explain the phenomenon. 
It seems these were his tributaries, feeders of his exchequer, 
gentlemen, his good friends (as he was pleased to express him- 
self), to whom he had occasional!}^ been beholden for a loan. 
Their multitudes did no way disconcert him : he rather took a 
pride in numbering them ; and, with Comus, seemed pleased to 
be "stocked with so fair a herd." 

With such sources, it was a wonder how he contrived to keep 
his treasury always empty. He did it by force of an aphorism, 



374 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

which he had often in his mouth, — that " money kept longer than 
three daj^s stinks : " so he made use of it while it was fresh. A 
good part he drank away (for he was an excellent toss-pot) ; 
some he gave away ; the rest he threw away, literally tossing and 
hurling it violently from him — as boys do burrs, or as if it had 
been infectious — into ponds or ditches or deep holes, inscrutable 
cavities of the earth ; or he would bury it (where he would never 
see it again) by a river's side, under some bank, wdiich (lie would 
facetiously observe) paid no interest : but out away from him it 
must go peremptorily, as Hagar s offspring into the wilderness, 
while it was sweet : he never missed it; the streams were peren- 
nial which fed his fisc. When new supplies became necessary, 
the first person that had the felicity to fall in with him, friend or 
stranger, was sure to contribute to the deficiency; for Bigod had 
an undeiiiahle way with him. He had a cheerful, open exterior; a 
quick, jovial eye ; a bald forehead, just touched with gray {cana 
fides). He anticipated no excuse, and found none. And, waiving 
for a while my theory as to the great race, I would put it to the 
most untheorizing reader who may at times have disposable coin 
in his pocket, whether it is not more repugnant to the kindliness 
of his nature to refuse such a one as I am describing than to say 
no to a poor petitionary rogue (j'Our bastard borrower), who by 
his mumping visnomy tells you that he expects nothing better, 
and therefore whose preconceived notions and expectations you 
do in reality so much less shock in the refusal 

When I think of this man, his fierj^ glow of heart, his swell 
of feeling; how magnificent, how ideal, he "was ; how great at the 
midnight hour; and when I compare with him the companions 
with whom I have associated since, — I grudge the saving of a 
few idle ducats, and think that I am fallen into the society of 
lenders and little men. 



MODERN GALLANTRY. 

Ix comparing modern with ancient manners, we are pleased to 
compliment ourselves upon the point of gallantr}^, — a certain 
obsequiousness or deferential resj)ect which we are supposed to 
pay to females as females. 

I shall believe that this principle actuates our conduct when I 
can forget, that, in the nineteenth century of the era from which 
we date our civility, w^e are but just beginning to leave off the 
very frequent practice of wdiipping females in public in common 
with the coarsest male offenders. 

I shall believe it to be influential when I can shut my eyes to 
the fact, that, in England, women are still occasionally hanged. 



CHARLES LAMB. 375 

I shall believe in it when actresses are no longer subject to be 
hissed off* a stage by gentlemen. I shall believe in it when 
Dorimant hands a fishwife across the kennel, or assists the apple- 
woman to pick up her wandering fruit which some unluck}- dray- 
has just dissipated. I shall believe in it when the Dorimants in 
humbler life, who would be thought in their way notable adepts 
in this refinement, shall act upon it in places where they are not 
known, or think themselves not observed ; when I shall see the 
traveler for some rich tradesman part with his admired box-coat 
to spread it over the defenseless shoulders of tlie poor woman who 
is passing to her parish on the roof of the same stage-coach with 
him, drenched in the rain ; when I shall no longer see a woman 
standing up in the pit of a London theater till she is sick and 
faint witli the exertion, with men about her seated at their ease, 
and jeering at her distress, till one that seems to have more 
manners or conscience than the rest significantly declares "she 
should be welcome to his seat if she were a little younger and 
handsomer." Place this dapper warehouseman, or that rider, 
in a circle of their own female acquaintance, and you shall con- 
fess you have not seen a politer-bred man in Lothbury. 

Lastly, I shall begin to believe there is some such principle in- 
fluencing our conduct when more than one-half of the drudgery 
and coarse servitude of the world shall cease to be performed by 
Avomen. Until that day comes, I shall never believe this boasted 
point to be any thing more than a conventional fiction, — a pageant 
got up between the sexes in a certain rank, and at a certain time 
of life, in which both find their account equally. 

I shall be even disposed to rank it among the salutary fictions 
of life, when, in polite circles, I shall see the same attentions paid 
to age as to 3'outh, to homely features as to handsome, to coarse 
complexions as to clear ; to the woman as she is a woman, not 
as she is a beauty, a fortune, or a title. I shall believe it to be 
something more than a name when a well-dressed gentleman in a 
well-dressed company can advert to the topic of female old age 
without exciting, and intending to excite, a sneer; wdien the 
phrases, " antiquated virginity," and such a one has " overstood 
her market," pronounced in good company, shall raise immediate 
offense in man or woman that shall hear them spoken. 

Joseph Paice of Bread-street Hill, merchant, and one of the di- 
rectors of the South Sea Company, — the same to whom Edwards, 
the Shakspeare commentator, has addressed a fine sonnet, — 
w^as the only pattern of consistent gallantry I have met with. 
He took me under his shelter at an early age, and bestowed 
some pains upon me. I owe to his precepts and example what- 
ever there is of the man of business (and that is not much) in my 
composition. It was not his fault that I did not profit more. 



376 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. 

Though bred a Presbyterian, and brought up a merchant, he was 
the finest gentleman of his time. He had not one system of 
attention to females in the drawing-room, and another in the 
shop or at the stall. I do not mean that he made no distinction ; 
but he never lost sight of sex, or overlooked it in the casualties of 
a disadvantageous situation. I have seen him stand bare-headed 
— smile if 3'ou please — to a poor servant-girl while she has been 
inquiring of him the way to some street, in such a posture of 
unforced civility as neither to embarrass her in the acceptance, 
nor himself in the offer of it. He was no dangler, in the common 
acceptation of tlie word, after women ; but he reverenced and 
upheld, in every form in which it came before him, womanhood. 
I have seen him — nay, smile not — tenderly escorting a market- 
woman whom he had encountered in a shower, exalting his umbrella 
over her poor basket of fruit, that it might receive no damage, 
with as much carefulness as if she had been a countess. To the 
reverend form of Female Eld he would yield the wall (though it 
were to an ancient beggar-woman) with more ceremony than we 
can afford to show our grandams. He was the Preux Chevalier 
of Age; the Sir Calidore or Sir Tristan to those who have no 
Calidores or Tristans to defend them. The roses that had long 
faded thence still bloomed for him in those withered and yellow 
cheeks. 

He was never married ; but in his youth he paid his addresses 
to the beautiful Susan "Winstanlej^, — old AYinstanley's daughter, 
of Clapton, — who, dying in the early days of their courtship, con- 
firmed in him the resolution of perpetual bachelorship. It was 
during their short courtship, he told me, that he had been one day 
treating his mistress with a profusion of civil speeches, — the com- 
mon gallantries, to which kind of thing she had hitherto manifested 
no repugnance ; but in this instance with no effect. He could not 
obtain from her a decent acknowledgment in return : she rather 
seemed to resent his compliments. He could not set it down to 
caprice ; for the lady had always shown herself above that littleness. 
When he ventured on the following da}^, finding her a little 
better humored, to expostulate with her on her coldness of 
yesterday, she confessed, with her usual frankness, that she had 
no sort of dislike to his attentions ; that slie could even endure 
some high-flown compliments; that a 3'oung woman placed in her 
situation had a right to expect all sort of civil things said to her; 
that she hoped that she could digest a dose of adulation, 
short of insincerity, with as little injury to her humilit}^ as most 
young women : but that — a little before he had commenced his 
compliments — she had overheard him, by accident, in rather 
rough language, rating a young woman who had not brought 
home his cravats quite to the appointed time ; and she thought to 



CHARLES LAMB. 377 

herself, "As I am Miss Susan Winstanlej'-, and a young lady, — a 
reputed beauty, and known to be a fortune, — I can have the 
choice of the finest speeches from the mouth of this very fine 
gentleman who is courting me; but if I had been poor Mary 
Such-a-one (naming the milliner), and had failed of bringing 
home the cravats at the appointed hour, though perhaps I had 
sat up half the night to forward them, what sort of compliments 
should I have received then? And my woman's pride came to my 
assistance, and I thought, that, if it were only to do me honor, a 
female like myself might have received handsomer usage ; and I 
was determined not to accept any fine speeches to the compromise 
of that sex, the belonging to which was, after all, my strongest 
claim and title to them." 

I think the lady discovered both generosity and a just way of 
thinking in this rebuke which she gave her lover; and I have 
sometimes imagined that the uncommon strain of courtesy which 
through life regulated the actions and behavior of my friend 
toward all of womankind indiscriminately, owed its happy origin 
to this seasonable lesson from the lips of his lamented mistress. 

I wish the whole female world would entertain the same 
notion of these things that Miss Winstanlej' showed : then we 
should see something of the spirit of consistent gallantry, and no 
longer Avitness the anomaly of the same man a pattern of true 
politeness to a wife, of cold contempt or rudeness to a sister, the 
idolater of his female mistress, the disparager and despiser of 
his no less female aunt, or unfortunate (still female) maiden cousin. 
Just so much respect as a woman derogates from her own sex, in 
whatever condition placed, — her handmaid or dependant, — she 
deserves to have diminished from herself on that score, and proba- 
bly will feel the diminution when youth and beauty, and ad- 
vantages not inseparable from sex, shall lose of their attraction. 
What a woman should demand of a man in courtship, or after it, 
is, first, respect for her as she is a woman-; and, next to that, 
to be respected by him above all other women. But let her stand 
upon her female character as upon a foundation ; and let the 
attentions incident to individual preference be so many addita- 
ments and ornaments — as many and as fanciful as you please — 
to that main structure. Let her first lesson be with sweet Susan 
Winstanley, — to reverence her sex. 



378 



ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 



ESSAYISTS AND CRITICS. 



5. "Eural Rides," "Cottage Economyy 

Decision of Character," and other able essays. 
-1830. Author of " The Characters of Shakspearc's 
'" and "Life of Napo- 



WlLLIAM COBBEXT. — 1762-1S2 

"svorlcs on America. 

JoHX Foster. — 1770-1843. ' 

William Hazlitt. — 1778- 
Plays," " Table-Talk," "Lectures upon the English Poets, 
leon." 

Sydney Smith. — 1771-1845. First editor of " The Edinburgh Review." The 

Letters on the Subject of the Catholics, 



most brilliant Avit of his time. Author of 



by Peter Plymley," "Letters to Archdeacon Singleton," and "Letters on the Penn- 
sylvania Bonds." 

Fkancis, Lord Jeffrey. — 1773-1850. The distinguished critic of " The Edin- 
burgh Review." The article on " Beauty," at the beginning of this book, was taken 
from his volume of " Essays and Criticisms." 

Walter S. Landor. — 1775-1864. Author of "Imaginary Conversations," 
" Gebir," " Count Julian," and other shorter poems. 

JoHX HoRNE TooKE. — 1736-1812. " The Diversions of Purley." 

William Combe. — 1741-1823. "Letters of the late Lord Lyttleton," "Tour 
of Dr. Syntax." 

Archibald Alison. — 1757-1838. Celebrated "Essay on Taste." 

Isaac Disraeli. — 1766-1848. " Curiosities of Literature," " Quarrels of Au- 
thors," " Calamities of Authors." 

Henry, Lord Brougham. — 1778-1868. " Obsei-vations on Light," "States- 
men of George III.," " England under the House of Lancaster." 

Sir Egerton Brydges. — 1762-1837. " Censuria Literaria," "Letters on the 
Genius of Byron." 

John Wilson Ckoker. — 1780-1S57. "Lord Hervey's Memoirs of the Court 
of George 11." 



SCIEISTTIFIC WPvITERS AND SCHOLARS. 



DISTINGUISHED CHEMISTS. 



Sir Humphry Davy. — 1778-1829. Many valuable papers in "Transactions 
of the Royal Society," " Sahuonia," and " The Last Days of a Philosopher." 

Sir John Herschel. — 1790. Distinguished astronomer. "Treatises on Sound 
and Light," " Outlines of Astronomy." 

Jeremy Bentham. — 1748-1832. Celebrated writer on law and politics. 
"Fragments on Government," "Introduction to tlie Principles of Morals and Legis- 
lation," and others. A utilitarian, his motto was, "The greatest happiness to the 
greatest number." 

DuGALD Stewart. — 1753-1828. Metaphysician. "The Philosophy of the 
Human Mind," " Outlines of Moral Philosophy!" 

David Ricaroo. — 177.2-1823. " The High Price of Bullion," " The Principles 
of Political Economy and Taxation." 

Thomas Brown. — 1778-1820. "Lectures on the Philosophy of the Human 
Mind." 

George Combe. — 1788-1858. " Essays on Phrenology; " " The Constitution of 
Man," a celebrated text-book. 



GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. 379 

John Abercrombie. 1781-1844. " The Intellectual Powers and the Investi- 
gation of Truth," "Philosophy of the Moral Feelings." 

Alexander Wilson. — 1766-1813. "American Ornithology." 

J. PvAMSAY M'CuLLocH. — 1790-1864. "Elements of Political Econom}-," 
*' Dictionary of Commerce," " Statistical Account of the British Empire." 

Adam Clarke. — 1760-1832. Eminent divine; Wesleyan Methodist, "A Com- 
mentary OA the Bible," " Bibliographical Dictionary." 

Robert Hall. — 1764-1831. Distinguished Baptist preacher. "An Apology 
for the Freedom of the Press," "A Sermon on Modern Infidelity," and other elo- 
quent sermons. 

Edward Irving. — 1792-1834. Sermons anfl lectures. 

Richard Porson. — 1759-1808. Classical scholar. "Euripides," "Homer," 
".^schylus," and "Herodotus; " "Notes on Greek Poets." 



GEORaE GORDON, LORD BYRON. 

1788-1824. 

The most distinguished poet of his time. His famous retort upon the Edinburgh 
critics, " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," shows how elegantly invective, in- 
spired by contempt and hate, speaks English. His best known works are " Childe 
Harold," "The Giaour," "The Bride of Abydos," "The Coi'sair," "Don Juan," 
and many shorter poems, "The Prisoner of Chillon." "The Lament of Tasso," 
" The Prophecy of Dante," " The Vision of Judgment," and others well known. 



TEE DYING GLADIATOR. 

The seal is set. Now welcome, thou dread power, 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight-hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct I'rom fear ! 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
Their ivy mantles ; and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear, 
That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing, but unseen. 

And here the buzz of ea^rer nations ran 
In murmured pity or loud-roared applause. 
As man was slauohtered by his fellow-man. 
And wherefore slaughtered? — wherefore, hut because 
Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure ? Wherefore not ? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms, — on the battle-plains, or listed spot? 
Both are but theaters where the chief actors rot. 



380 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

I see before mc the gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand ; his manly brow 
Consents to death, but con(|uers agony ; 
And his drooped head sinks gradually low ; 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower. And now 
The arena swims around him : he is gone 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. 

He heard it ; but he heeded not : his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away : 
He recked not of the life he lost, nor prize ; 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play ; 
There was their Dacian mother : he, their sire, 
Butchered to make a Roman holiday ! 
All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire. 
And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your ire ! 



APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods ; 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore ; 
There is society, where none intrudes. 
By the deep sea, and music in its roar : 
I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our intervieAvs, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the universe, and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet can not all conceal. 

Roll on, Ihou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll I 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain : 
Man marks the earth with ruin ; his control 
Stops Avitli the shore : upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed ; nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain. 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncofiined, and unknown. 

His steps are not upon thy paths ; thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him ; thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies. 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray, 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port or bay ; 
And dashest him again to earth, — there let him lay I 



GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. 381 

The armaments whicli tliunderstrike the walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
And nionarchs tremble in their capitals ; 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war, — 
These are thy toys ; and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. 

I 
Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee. 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, — what are they? 
Thy waters wasted them while they were free, 
And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts : not so thou ; 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play. 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow : 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou roUest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, — 
Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime, — '■ 
The image of Eternity, the throne 
Of the Invisible : even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone 
Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 

And I have loved thee. Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers ; they to me 
AVere a delight ; and, if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear ; 
For I was, as it were, a child of thee. 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane, as I do here. 



LAKE GENEVA. 

Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction : once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar ; but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a sister's voice reproved. 
That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 



382 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

It is the hush of night ; and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellowed and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darkened Jura, whose capt hights appear 
Precipitously steep : and, drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the shore 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar; 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more ; 

He is an evening reveler, who makes 
His life and infancy, and sings his fill. 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill : 
But that is fancy ; for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instill, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 

The sky is changed ; and such a change ! O night 
And storm and darkness ! ye are wondrous strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue ; 
And Jura answers through her misty shroud 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 

And this is in the night ! Most glorious night ! 
Thou Avert not sent for slumber : let me be 
A sharer in thy fierce and far delight, 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea ! 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
And now again 'tis black ; and now the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth. 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 



DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea 
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 



GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYROX. 383 

For tlie Angel of Death spread liis wings on the blast, 
And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed ; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill ; 
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; 
And the foam of liis gasping lay white on the turf) 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail ; 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 



DARKNESS. 

I HAD a dream which was not all a dream. 

The bright sun was extinguished ; and the stars 

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 

Rtiyless and pathless ; and the icy earth 

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air. 

Morn came and went and came, and brought no day : 

And men forgot their passions in the dread 

Of this their desolation ; and all hearts 

Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light. 

And they did live by watch-fires ; and the thrones, 

The palaces of crowned kings, the huts, 

The habitations of all things which dwell, 

Were burnt for beacons. Cities were consumed ; 

And men were gathered round their blazing homes 

To look once more into each other's face : 

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye 

Of the volcanoes and their mountain-torch ! 

A fearful hope was all the world contained. 

Forests were set on fire ; but hour by hour 

They fell and faded, and the crackling trunks 

Extinguished with a crash, and all was black. 

The brows of men by the despairing light 

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 

The flashes fell upon them : some lay down. 

And hid their eyes, and wept ; and some did rest 

Their chins upon their clinched hands, and smiled; 

And others hurried to and fro, and fed 

Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up 

AVith mad disquietude on the dull sky. 

The pall of a past world, and then again 



384 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

With curses cast them down upon the dust, 

And gnashed tlieir teeth, and howled. The wild birds shrieked, 

And, terrified, did flutter on die ground, 

And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 

Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawled 

And twined themselves among the multitude, 

Hissing, but stingless, — they were slain for foodj 

And War, which for a moment was no more, 

Did glut himself again. A meal was bought 

With blood ; and each sate sullenly apart. 

Gorging himself in gloom. No love was left : 

All earth was but one thought, and that was death, 

Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 

Of famine fed upon all entrails. Men 

Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 

The meager by the meager were devoured : 

Even dogs assailed their masters, — all save one, 

And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 

The birds and beasts and famished men at bay. 

Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 

Lured their lank jaws : himself sought out no food, 

But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 

And a quick, desolate cry, licking the hand 

Which answered not with a caress, he died. 

The crowd was famished by degrees : but two 

Of an enormous city did survive; 

And thev were enemies. They met beside 

The dying embers of an altar-place, 

Where had been heaped a mass of holy things 

For an unholy usage : they raked up. 

And, shivering, scraped with their cold skeleton hands, 

The feeble ashes ; and tlieir feeble breath 

Blew for a little life, and made a flame 

Which was a mockery : then they lifted up 

Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 

Each other's aspects, — saw and shrieked and died, — 

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 

Famine had written fiend. The world was void ; 

The populous and the powerful was a lump, — 

Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless, — 

A lump of death, — a chaos of hard clay. 

The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still ; 

And nothing stirred within their silent depth. 

Ships, sailorless, lay rotting on the sea ; 

And tlieir masts fell down piecemeal : as they dropped, 

They slept on the abyss without a surge. 

The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave ; 

The moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 

The winds were withered in the stagnant air ; 

And the clouds perished. Darkness had no need 

Of aid from them : she was the universe. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 385 

SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

1771-1832, Born in Edinbdrgh. 

The celebrated author of " The Waverley Novels," *' Lay of the Last Minstrel," 
" Marmion," and " Lady of the Lake," all having an historical groundwork. His 
" Life of Napoleon " was written too near the time and place of the events com- 
memorated, and by too much of an Englishman, to do justice to the subject. A 
prodigy of industry, and the soul of honor as a man. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 
THE GUARD-ROOM. 

The sun, awakening, through the smoky air 
Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, 
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, — 
Of sinful man the sad inheritance ; 
Summoning revelers from the lagging dance ; 
Scaring the prowling robber to his den ; 
Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance ; 
And warning student pale to leave his pen, 
And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind nurse of men. 

What various scenes, and, oh ! what scenes of woe, 
Are witnessed by that red and struggling beam 1 
The fevered patient, from his pallet low, 
Through crowded hospital beholds it stream ; 
The ruined maiden trembles at its gleam ; 
The debtor wakes to thoughts of gyve and jail ; 
The lovelorn wretch starts from tormenting dream ; 
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering pale, 
Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes his feeble wail. 

At dawn, the towers of Stirling rang 
With soldier-step and weapon-clang ; 
While drums, with rolling note, foretell 
Relief to weary sentinel. 
Through narrow loop, and casement barred, 
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
And, struggling with the smoky air, 
Deadened the torches' yellow glare. 
In comfortless alliance shone 
The lights through arch of blackened stone, 
And showed wild shapes in garb of war, — 
Faces deformed with beard and scar. 
All haggard from the midnight watch, 
And fevered with the stern debauch ; 
For the oak table's massive board, 
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, 



386 ENGLISH LITER ATTJBE. 

And beakers drained, and cups o'erthrown, 
Showed in what sport the night had flown. 
Some, weary, snored en floor and bench ; 
Some labored still their thirst to quench ; 
Some, chilled, with watching, spread their hands 
O'er the huge chimney''s dying brands, 
While, round them or beside them flung, 
At every step their harness rung. 

These drew not for their fields the sword 

Like tenants of a feudal lord, • 

Nor owned the patriarchal claim 

Of chieftain in their leader's name : 

Adventurers they from far, who roved 

To live by battle, which they loved. 

There the Italian's clouded face ; 

The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace ; 

The mountain-loving Switzer there 

More freely breathed in mountain-air ; 

The Fleming there despised the soil 

That paid so ill the laborer's toil. 

Their rolls showed French and Gennan name ; 

And merry England's exiles came 

To share with ill-concealed disdain 

Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain, — 

All brave in arms, well trained to wield 

The heavy halbert, brand, and shield : 

In camps, licentious, wild, and bold ; 

In pillage, fierce and uncontrolled ; 

And now, by holytide and feast, 

From rules of discipline released. 



They held debate of bloody fray 

Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray. 

Fierce was their speech ; and, 'mid their words, 

Their hands oft grappled to their swords ; 

Nor sank their tone to spare the ear 

Of wounded comrades groaning near. 

Whose mangled limbs and bodies gored 

Bore token of the mountain sword, 

Though, neighboring to the Court of Guard, 

Their prayers and feverish wails were heard ; 

Sad burdened to the ruflian joke, 

And savage oath by fury spoke. 

At length upstarted John of Brent, 

A yeoman from the banks of Trent, 

A stranger to respect or fear, 

In peace a chaser of the deer, 

In host a hardy mutineer, 

But still the boldest of the crew 

When deed of dano-er was to do. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 387 

He grieved, that day, their games cut short, 
And marred the dicers' brawUng sport ; 
And slioutad loud, " Renew the bowl 1 
And, while a merry catch I troll, 
Let each the buxom chorus bear, 
Like brethren of the brand and spear." 

soldier's song. 

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and Poule 

Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny brown bowl ; 

That there's wrath and despair in the jolly black jack, 

And seven deadly sins in a flagon of sack. 

Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor, 

Drink upsees out, and a fig for the vicar 1 

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip 

The ripe, ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip ; 

Says that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief so sly. 

And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry black eye. 

Yet whoop, Jack ! kiss Gillian the quicker. 

Till she bloom like a rose ; and a fig for the vicar 1 

Our vicar thus preaches ; and why should he not ? 
For the dues of his cure are the placket and pot ; 
And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to lurch 
Who infringe the domains of our good mother-church. 
Yet whoop, bully-boys ! off with your liquor ; 
Sweet Marjorie's the word, and a fig for the vicar 1 

The warder's challenge heard without 

Stayed in mid roar the merry shout. 

A soldier to the portal went : — 

" Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent ; 

And — beat for jubilee the drum ! — 

A maid and minstrel with him come." 

Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarred, 

Was entering now the Court of Guard ; 

A harper with him ; and, in plaid 

All muffled close, a mountain-maid, 

Who backward shrank to 'scape the view 

Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 

" What news ? " they roared. *' I only know 

From noon till eve we fought with foe 

As wild and as untamable 

As the rude mountains where they dwell. 

On both sides, store of blood is lost : 

Not much success can either boast." 

" Bat whence thy captives, friend ? such spoil 

As theirs must need reward thy toil. 

Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp : 

Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp ; 

Get thee an ape, and trudge the land. 

The leader of a juggler-band." 



388 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" No, comrade ; no such fortune mine. 

After the fight, these sought our line, — ■ 

Tliat aged harper and tlie girl ; 

And, having audience of the earl, 

Mar bade I should purvey them steed, 

And bring them hitherward with speed. 

Forbear your mirth and rude alarm ; 

For none shall do them shame or harm." 

" Hear ye his boast," cried John of Brent, 

Ever to strife and jangling bent : 

*' Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, 

And yet the jealous niggard grudge 

To pay the forester his fiee ? 

I'll have my share, howe'er it be. 

Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee I " 

Bertram his forward step withstood ; 

And, burning in his vengeful mood, 

Old Allan, though unfit for strife, 

Laid hand upon his dagger-knife : 

But Ellen boldly stepped between, 

And dropped at once the tartan screen. 

So from his morning cloud appears 

The sun of May through summer tears. 

The savage soldiery, amazed. 

As on descended angel gazed : 

Even hardy Brent, abashed and tamed. 

Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 

Boldly she spoke : " Soldiers, attend ! 
My father was the soldier's friend ; 
Cheered him in camps, in marches led. 
And with him in the battle bled. 
Not from the valiant or the strong 
Should exile's daughter suffer wrong." 
Answered De Brent, most forward still 
In every feat of good or ill : 
" I shame me of the part I played ; 
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid ! 
An outlaw I by forest laws ; 
And merry Needwood knows the cause. 
Poor Rose, if Rose be living now, — 
He wiped his iron eye and brow, — 
" Must bear such age, I think, as thou. 
Hear ye, my mates ! I go to call 
The captain of our watch to hall : 
There lies my halbert on the floor ; 
And he that steps my halbert o'er 
To do the maid injurious part. 
My shaft shall quiver in his heart ! 
Beware loose speech, or jesting rough. 
Ye all know John de Brent. Enough." 
Their captain came, — a gallant young, 
(Of TuUibardine's house he sprung,) 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 389 

Nor wore he yet the spur of knight ; 

Gay was his mien, his humor Ught ; 

And, though by courtesy controlled, 

Forward his speech, his bearing bold. 

The high-born maiden ill could brook 

The scanning of his curious look 

And dauntless eye ; and yet, in sooth, 

Young Lewis was a generous youth : 

But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 

III suited to the guard and scene, 

Must lightly bear construction strange, 

And give loose fancy scope to range. 

" Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid ! 

Come ye to seek a champion's aid 

On palfrey white with harper hoar, 

Like errant damosel of yore ? 

Does thy high quest a knight rec^uire ? 

Or may the venture suit a squire V " 

Her dark eye flashed : she paused and sighed, 

" Oh ! what have I to do with pride ? 

Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and strife, 

A suppliant for a father's life, 

I crave an audience of the king. 

Behold, to back my suit, a ring, 

The royal pledge of grateful claims 

Given by the monarch to Fitz-James 1 " 

The signet-ring young Lewis took 
With deep respect and altered look, 
And said, " This ring our duties own ; 
And pardon, if to worth unknown. 
In semblance mean, obscm-ely veiled, 
Lady, in aught my folly failed. 
Soon as the day flings wide the gates, 
The king shall know what suitor waits. 
Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower 
Repose you till his waking hour : 
Female attendance shall obey 
Your best for service or array : 
Permit, I marshal you the way." 
But, ere she followed, Avith the grace 
And open bounty of her race 
She bade her slender purse be shared 
Among the soldiers of the guard. 
The rest with thanks their guerdon took. 
But Brent, with shy and awkward look. 
On the reluctant maiden's hold 
Forced bluntly back the proffered gold : 
" Forgive a haughty English heart ; 
And> oh ! forget its ruder part. 
The vacant purse shall be my share, 
Which in my barret-cap I'll bear. 



390 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 

Where gayer crests may keep afar." 

With thanks — 'twas all she could — the maid 

His rugged courtesy repaid. 

When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
Allan made suit to John of Brent : 
" My lady safe, oh ! let your grace 
Give me to see my master's face : 
His minstrel I, to share his doom 
Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
Tenth in descent, since first ray sires 
Waked for his noble house their lyres ; 
Nor one of all the race was known 
But prized its weal above their own. 
With the chief's birth begins our care : 
Our harp must soothe the infant heir, 
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace 
His earliest feat of field or chase. 
In peace, in war, our rank we keep : 
We cheer his board ; we soothe his sleep ; 
Nor leave him till we pour our verse, 
A doleful tribute, o'er his hearse. 
Then let me share his captive lot : 
It is my right ; deny it not ! " 
" Little we reck," said John of Brent, 
" We southern men, of long descent ; 
Nor wot we how a name, a word, 
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord : 
Yet kind my noble landlord's part ; 
(God bless the house of Beaudesert !) 
And, but I loved to drive the deer 
More than to guide the laboring steer, 
I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
Come, good old minstrel, follow me : 
Thy lord and chieftain s'halt thou see.'* 

Then from a rusted iron hook 
A bunch of ponderous keys he took, 
Lighted a torch, and Allan led 
Through grated arch and passage dread. 
Portals they passed, where, deep within, 
Spoke prisoner's moan and fetters dim ; 
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely stored, 
Lay wheel and ax, and headsman's sword, 
And many a hideous engine grim 
For wrenching joint and crushing limb. 
By artists formed who deemed it shame 
And sin to give their work a name. 
They halted at a low-browed porch ; 
And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
While bolt and chain he backward rolled, 
And made the bar unhasp its hold. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 391 

They entered. 'Twas a prison-room 

Of stern security and gloom ; 

Yet not a dungeon, for the day 

Through lofty gratings found its way ; 

And rude and antique garniture 

Decked the sad walls and oaken floor, — 

Such as the rugged days of old 

Deemed fit for captive noble's hold. 

" Here," said De Brent, " thou mayst remain 

Till the Leach visit him again. 

Strict is his charge, the warders tell, — 

To tend the noble prisoner well." 

Retiring then, the bolt he drew ; 

And the lock's murmurs growled anew. 

Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 

A captive feebly raised his head : 

The wondering minstrel looked, and knew, 

Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu ; 

For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, 

They, erring, deemed the chief he sought. 

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 

Shall never stem the billowy more. 

Deserted by her gallant band, 

Amid the breakers lies astrand : 

So on his couch lay Roderick Dhu ; 

And oft his fevered limbs he threw 

In toss abrupt, as when her sides 

Lie rocking in the advancing tides 

That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, 

Yet can not heave her from her seat. 

Oh ! how unlike her course on sea. 

Or his free step on hill and lea ! 

Soon as the minstrel he could scan, 

« What of thy lady ? of my clan ? 

My mother ? Douglas ? — tell me all. 

Have they been ruined in my fall ? 

Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here ? 

Yet speak, speak boldly ! do not fear." 

(For Allan, who his mood well knew, 

Was choked with grief and terror too.) 

" Who fought ? who fled ? Old man, be brief. 

Some might ; for they bad lost their chief. 

AVho basely live ? who bravely died ? " — 

" Oh, calm thee, chief ! " the minstrel cried : 

" Ellen is safe." — " For that, thank Heaven I " — 

" And hopes are for the Douglas given; 

The Lady Margaret, too, is well ; 

And for thy clan, on field or fell, 

Has never harp of minstrel told 

Of combat fought so true and bold. 

Thy stately pine is still unbent. 

Though many a goodly bough is rent." 



392 ENGLISH LILERATURE. 

The chieftain reared his form on high, 

And fever's fire was in his eye ; 

But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 

Checkered his swarthy brow and cheeks. 

" Hark, minstrel ! I have heard thee play 

With measure bold on festal day 

In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er 

Shall harper play or warrior hear, . . . 

That stirring air that peals on high, 

O'er Dermid's race our victory. 

Strike it ! and then (for well thou canst) 

Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced. 

Fling me the picture of the fight 

When met my clan the Saxon might. 

I'll listen till my fancy hears 

The clang of swords, the crash of spears ; 

These grates, these walls, shall vanish then 

For the fair field of fighting-men, 

And my free spirit burst away 

As if it soared from battle fray." 

The trembling bard with awe obeyed : 

Slow on the harp his hand he laid ; 

But soon remembrance of the sight 

He witnessed from the mountain's hight. 

With what old Bertram told at night, 

Awakened the full power of song, 

And bore him in career along. 

As shallop launched on river's tide, 

That slow and fearful leaves the side. 

But, when it feels the middle stream, 

Drives downward swift as lightning's beam. 

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE. 

" The minstrel came once more to view 
The eastern ridge of Ben-venue ; 
For, ere he parted, he would say 
Farewell to lovely Loch-Achray : 
Where shall he find in foreign land 
So pure a lake, so sweet a strand ? 
There is no breeze upon the fern. 

No ripple on the lake ; 
Upon her eyrie nods the erne ; 

The deer has sought the brake ; 
The small birds will not sing aloud ; 

The springing trout lies still ; 
So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, 
That swathes as with a purple shroud 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunder's solemn sound 

Tliat mutters deep and dread ? 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 

The warrior's measured tread 'i 




SIR WALTER SCOTT. 393 

Is it the lightning's quivering glance 

That on the thicket streams ? 
Or do they flash on spear and lance,— 

The sun's retiring beams V 
I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star, 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
That up the lake comes winding far : 
To hero bound for battle-strife, 

Or bard of martial lay, 
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, — 

One glance at their array ! 

" Their light-armed archers far and near 

Surveyed the tangled ground ; 
Their center ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frowned ; 
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear. 

The stern battalia crowned. 
No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang ; 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang. 

The sullen march was dumb. 
There breathed no wind their crests to shake, 

Or wave their flags abroad ; 
Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake. 

That shadowed o'er their road. 
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring 

Can rouse no lurking foe, 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save when they stirred the roe ; 
The host moves like a deep sea-wave 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, — 

High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
The lake is passed ; and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain, 
Before the Trosachs' rugged jaws : 
And here the horse and spearmen pause j 
While, to explore the dangerous glen, 
Dive through the pass the archer-men. 

" At once there rose so wild a yell 
Within that dark and narrow dell, 
As all the fiends from heaven that fell 
Had pealed the banner-cry of hell. 
Forth from the pass in tumult driven. 
Like chaff" before the wind of heaven. 

The archery appear. 
For life, for life, their flight they ply ; 
And shriek and shout and battle-cry. 
And plaids and bonnets waving high. 
And broadswords flashing to the sky. 

Are maddening in their rear. 



894 ENGLISH LITEEATUBB. 

Onward tliey drive in dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of flight and chase, 
How sliall it keep its rooted place, 

The spearmen's twiliiiht wood ? 

* Down, down ! ' cried Mar, ' your lances down I 

Bear back both friend and foe ! ' 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That seiTied grove of lances brown 

At once lay leveled low ; 
And, closely shouldering side to side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. 

* We'll quell the savage mountaineer, 

As their Tinchel cows the game : 
They come as fleet as forest deer ; 
We'll drive them back as tame.' 

*' Bearing before them in their course 
The relics of the archer force. 
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam. 
Right onward did Clan- Alpine come. 
Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishing like beam of light ; 

Each targe was dark below ; 
And, with the ocean's mighty swing 
When heaving to the tempest's wing, 

They hurled them on the foe. 
I heard the lance's shivering crash 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash ; 
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang 
As if a hundred anvils rang : 
But Moray wheeled his rearward rank 
Of horsemen on Clan- Alpine's flank. 

' My banner-man, advance ! 
I see,' he cried, ' their column shake ! 
Now, gallants, for your ladies' sake, 

Upon them with the lance ! ' 
The horsemen dashed among the rout 

As deer break through the broom : 
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out; 

They soon make lightsome room. 
Clan- Alpine's best are backward borne, 

(Where, where, was Roderick then ? 
One blast upon his bugle-horn 

Were worth a thousand men ;) 
And refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was poured : 
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear. 

Vanished the mountain sword. 
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, 

Receives her roaring linn ; 
AsLthe dark caverns of the deep 

Suck the wild whirlpool in : 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. S^5 

So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour the battle's mingled mass ; 
None linger now upon the plain 
Save tliose who ne'er shall fight again. 

" Now westward rolls the battle's din 
That deep and doubling pass within. 
Minstrel, away ! the work of fate 
Is bearing on : its issue wait 
Where the rude Trosachs' dread defile 
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. 
Gray Ben-venue I soon repassed ; 
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
The sun is set, the clouds are met; 

The lowering scowl of heaven 
An inky hue of livid blue 

To the deep lake has given ; 
Strange gusts of wind from mountain-glen 
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk again. 
I heeded not the eddying sui-ge ; 
Mine eye but saw the Trosachs' gorge ; 
Mine ear but heard that sullen sound 
Which like an earthquake shook the ground, 
And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
That parts not but with parting life, 
Seeming, to minstrel-ear, to toll 
The dirge of many a passing soul. 
Nearer it comes; the dim wood-glen 
The martial flood disgorged again, 

But not in mingled tide : 
The plaided warriors of the north 
High on the mountain thunder forth, 

And overhang its side ; 
While by the lake below appears 
The darkening cloud of Saxon spears. 
At weary bay each shattered band, 
Eying their foemen, sternly stand ; 
Their banners stream like tattered sail 
That flings its fragment to the gale ; 
And broken arms and disarray 
Marked the fell havoc of the day. 

" Viewing the mountain's ridge askance, 
The Saxons stood in sullen trance 
Till Moray pointed with his lance, 

And cried, ' Behold yon isle ! 
See ! none are left to guard its strand, 
But women weak, that wring the hand. 
'Tis there of yore the robber-band 

Their booty wont to pile ; 
My purse, with bonnet-pieces store. 
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er, 
And loose a shallop from the shore. 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, 
Lords of his mate, and brood and den.* 
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung ; 
On earth his casque and corselet rung : 

He plunged him in the wave. 
All saw the deed, the purpose knew ; 
And to their clamors Ben-venue 

A mingled echo gave : 
The Saxons shout their mate to cheer ; 
Tlie helpless females scream for fear ; 
And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven. 
Poured down at once the lowering heaven : 
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast ; 
Her billows reared their snowy crest. 
Well for the swimmer swelled they high 
To mar the Highland marksman's eye ; 
For round him showered, 'mid rain and hail. 
The vengeful arrows of the Gael. 
In vain. He nears the isle ; and, lo I 
His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
Just then, a flash of lightning came ; 
It tinged the waves and strand with flame. 
I marked Duncraggan's widowed dame : 
Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
A naked dirk gleamed in her hand. 
It darkened ; but amid the moan 
Of waves I heard a dying groan: 
Another flash ; the spearman floats 
A weltering corse beside the boats ; 
And the stern matron o'er him stood, 



" ' Revenge, revenge ! ' the Saxons cried ; 

The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 

Despite the elemental rage. 

Again they hurried to engage ; 

But, ere they closed in desperate fight, 

Bloody with spurring came a knight. 

Sprang from his horse, and from a crag 

Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 

Clarion and trumpet by his side 

Rang forth a truce-note high and wide ; 

While in the monarch's name afar 

A herald's voice forbade the war ; 

For Bothwell's lord and Roderick bold 

Were both, he said, in captive hold.'* 

But here the lay made sudden stand ; 
The harp escaped the minstrel's hand. 
Oft had he stolen a glance to spy 
How Roderick brooked his minstrelsy. 



HISTORY AND TRAVEL. 397 

At first, the chieftain to the chime 

With lifted hand kept feeble time ; 

That motion ceased, yet feeling strong 

Varied his look as changed the song. 

At length, no more his deafened ear 

The minstrel melody can hear ; 

His face grows sharp ; his hands are clinched 

As if some pang his heart-strings wrenched ; 

Set are his teeth ; his fading eye 

Is sternly fixed on vacancy : 

Tlius, motionless and moanless, drew 

His parting-breath stout Roderick Dhu. 

Old Allan-bane looked on aghast 

While grim and still his spirit passed ; 

But, when he saw that life was fled, 

He poured his wailing o'er the dead. 



HISTORY AND TEAYEL. 

Edward Gibbon. — 1737-1794. The stately historian of " The Decline and Fall 
of the Roman Empire." 

John Lingard. — 1771-1851. The Roman-Catholic author of a learned and val- 
uable " History of England," thirteen vols. 

Henry Hallam. — 1778-1859. Author of three invaluable historical works, — 
"View of Europe during the Middle Ages," "The Constitutional History of Eng- 
land," and "An Introduction to the Literature of Europe." 

William Napier. — 1785-1860. "The Peninsular War," " The Conquest of 
Scinde," and " The Life of Sir Charles Napier." 

William Roscoe. — 1753-1831. " The Life of Lorenzo de Medici," and " The 
Life and Pontificate of Leo X." 

Sir James McIntosh. — 1765-1832. Short " Life of Sir Thomas More," " Dis- 
sertation on Ethical Philosophy," and other essays. 

Thomas McCrle. — 1772-1835. "Life of John Knox," and " Life of Andrew 
Melville." 

J.uies Mill. — 1773-1836. " History of British hidia." 

David Dalrymple. — 1726-1792. "Annals of Scotland, from Malcolm HL to 
the Accession of the Stuarts." 

George Chalmers. — 1742-1825. " Caledonia" (antiquities and early history 
of Scotland), '• Life of Queen Mary," " Life of Sir David Lyndsay." 

WiLLiA3i MiTFORD. — 1744-1827. " Histor}^ of Greece." 

WiLLAM CoxE. — 1747-1828. "History of Austria," " Memoirs of Walpole and 
Marlborough." 

John Pinkerton. — 1758-1825. "History of Scotland before the Reign of 
Malcolm HL, and under the Stuarts;" "The Scythians, or Goths." 

Malcolm Laing. — 1762-1818. "History of Scotland from 1603 to 1707," 
"Dissertations on the Gowrie Plot and the Mnrder of Darnley." 

Sharon Turner. — 1768-1847. "History of the Anglo-Saxons," "History of 
England during the Middle Ages." 

Patrick Eraser Tytler. — 1791-1849. "LTniversal Hlstorv," "History of 
Scotland from Alexander UI. to 1603," " Lives of Scottish Worthies," "Life of Ra- 
leigh." 



398 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

James Bruce, Mungo Park, Hugh Clapperton, Richard Lander, John L. Burck- 
hart, and G. Belzoni, travels in Africa. Edward Clarke, J. Silk Buckingham, Sir 
John Malcolm, James Morier, Oursly, Sir R. Ker Porter, James B. Frazer, Staunton, 
Barrow, and Ellis, travels in Asia. Forsyth, lilustace, Mathews, Lady Morgan, 
Inglis, and others, in Europe. Parry, Ross, Franklin, and Scoresby, polar regions. 



NOVELISTS. 

Maria Edgevtorth. — 1767-1849. "Belinda," "Popular Tales," "Tales of 
Fashionable Life," and a long list of popular works. 

Henry Mackexzie. — 1745-1831. "The Man of Feeling," and "The Man of 
the World." 

Frances Burney. — 1752-1840. "Eveline," "Cecilia," and "Diary and Letters." 
John Galt. — 1779-1839. " The Ayrshire Legatees," " The Annals of the Par- 
ish," " Sir Andrew Wylie," " The Entail," " The Last of the Lairds," and "Laurie 
Todd." 

Frances Trollope, 1790. " The Domestic Manners of the Americans," 
"The Abbess," "The Vicar of Wrexhill," "The Widow Barnaby," and "The 
Ward of Thorpe Combe." The mother of Anthony and Thomas. 
John Moore. — 1729-1802. " Zeluco," " Edward." 

Chart otte Smith. —1749-1806. "The Old English Manor-House," " Emme- 
line." 

Sophia Lee. — 1750-1824, and her sister Harriet Lee. — 1766-1851. "The 
Canterbury Tales and Dramas." 

Elizabeth Inchbald. — 1753-1821. " A Simple Story," " Nature and Art." 
WiLLLUi GoD'.viN. — 1756-1836. " Caleb Williams," " St. Leon." 
Elizabeth Hamilton. — 1758-1816. " Cottagers of Glenburnie." 
William Beckford. — 1759-1844. " Vathek, an Arabian Tale." 
Anne Radcliffe. — 1764-1823. " Romance of the Forest," " Mysteries of Udol- 
pho," " The Italian." 

R. Plumer Ward. — 1762-1846. " Tremaine, or the Man of Refinement," " De 
Vere," "De Clifford." 

Amelia Opie. — 1769-1853. "Father and Daughter," "Tales of the Heart," 
"Temper." 

Matthew Gregory Lewis. — 1773-1818. "The Monk," "Bravo of Venice," 
*' Tales of Wonder," "The Castle Specter." 

Jane Austen. — 1775-1817. " Pride and Prejudice," " Mansfield Park," " Per- 
suasion." 

Mary Brunton. — 1778-1818. "Self-Control," "Discipline." 
James Morier. — 1780-1849. " Hajji Baba," " Zohrab," " The Mirza." 
Thomas Hope. — Died 1831. " Anastasius, or Memoirs of a Modern Greek." 
Mary Ferrier. — 1782-1S54. "Marriage," " The Inheritance," "Destiny." 
Lady Morgan. — 1786-1859. " The Wild Irish Girl," " O'Donnell." 
Theodore Hook. — 1788-1842. "Gilbert Gurney," "Sayings and Doings," 
"Jack Brag." 

Mary Mitford. — 1789-1855. " Our Village," " Belford Regis." 
Countess of Blessington. — 1790-1849. "The Repealers," "Belle of a Sea- 
son," " Victims of Society," " Idler in Italy," " Idler in France." 
Anna Porter. — 1780-1832. "Don Sebastian." 

Jane Porter. — 1776-1850. " Thaddeus of Warsaw," " Scottish Chiefs." 
Thomas C. Grattan. — Born 1796. "Highways and Byways," "Heiress of 
Bruges," " History of tlie Netherlands." 

Mary Shelley. — 1797-1851. "Frankenstein." 



WILLIAM COWPER. 399 

WILLIAM COWPER. 

1731-1800. 

Author of " The Task," " Lines on the Receipt of my Mother's Picture," and 
many minor poems, " John Gilpin," &c. 



THE TIME-PIECE. 

Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, 

Some boundless contiguity of shade, 

Where rumor of oppression and deceit, 

Of unsuccessful or successful war, 

Might never reach me more ! My ear is pained. 

My soul is sick, with every day's report 

Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. 

There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart ; 

It does not feel for man : the natural bond 

Of brotherhood is severed as the flax 

That falls asunder at the touch of fire. 

He finds his fellow guilty of a skin 

Not colored like his own ; and, having power 

To enforce the wrong for such a worthy cause. 

Dooms and devotes him as a lawful prey. 

Lands intersected by a narrow frith 

Abhor each other. Mountains interposed 

Make enemies of nations, who had else, 

Like kindred drops, been kindled into one. 

Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys ; 

And worse than all, and most to be deplored 

As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, 

Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat 

With stripes that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, 

Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. 

Then what is man ? And what man, seeing this, 

And having human feelings, does not blush, 

And hang his head, to think himself a man ? 

I would not have a slave to till my ground. 

To caiTy me, to fan me while I sleep, 

And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth 

That sinews bought and sold have ever earned. 

No : dear as freedom is, and in my heart's 

Just estimation prized above all price, 

I had much rather be myself the slave, 

And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. 

We have no slaves at home. Then why abroad? 

And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave 

That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. 

Slaves can not breathe in England : if their lungs 



400 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

Receive our air, that moment they are free ; 
They touch our country, and their shackles fall. 
That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud 
And jealous of the blessing. Spread it, then, 
And let it circulate through every vein 
Of all your empire, that, where Britain's power 
Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. 

Sure there is need of social intercourse, 
Benevolence and peace, and mutual aid, 
Between the nations, in a world that seems 
To toll the death-bell of its own decease, 
And, by the voice of all its elements, 
To preach the general doom. When were the winds 
Let slip with such a warrant to destroy ? 
When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap 
Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry ? 
Fires from beneath, and meteors from above, 
Portentous, unexampled, unexplained, 
Have kindled beacons in the skies ; and the old 
And crazy Earth has had her shaking fits 
More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. 
Is it a time to wrangle when the props 
And pillars of our planet seem to fail, 
And Nature with a dim and sickly eye 
To wait the close of all ? But grant her end 
More distant, and that prophecy demands 
A longer respite, unaccomplished yet ; 
Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak 
Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth 
Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. 
And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve. 
And stand exposed by common peccancy 
To what no few have felt, there should be peace, 
And brethren in calamity should love. 

Alas for Sicily ! rude fragments now 
Lie scattered where the shapely columns stood. 
Her palaces are dust. In all her streets, 
The voice of singing and the sprightly chord 
Are silent. Revelry and dance and show 
Suffer a syncope and solemn pause, 
While God performs upon the trembling stage 
Of his own works his dreadful part alone. 
How does the earth receive him (with what signs 
Of gratulation and delight), her king? 
Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, — 
Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, — 
Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads ? 
She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb, 
Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps 
And fiery caverns roars beneath his foot. 
The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke ; 
For he has touched them. From the extremest point 



WILLIAM COWPER. 401 

Of elevation, down into tlie abyss, 
His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. 
The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise ; 
The rivers die into offensive pools, 
And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross 
And mortal nuisance into all the air. 
AVhat solid was, by transformation strange 
Grows fluid ; and the fixed and rooted earth, 
Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, 
Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl 
Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense 
The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs 
And agonies of human and of brute 
Multitudes, fugitive on every side. 
And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene 
Migrates uplifted ; and, with all its soil 
Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out 
A new possessor, and survives the change. 
Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought 
To an enormous and o'erbearing hight, — 
Not by a mighty wind, but by that Voice 
Which winds and waves obey, — invades the shore 
Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, 
Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, 
Possessed an inland scene. Where now the throng 
That pressed the beach, and, hasty to depart. 
Looked to the sea for safety ? They are gone, — 
Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, — 
A prince with half his people ! Ancient towers, * 
And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes 
Where beauty oft and lettered worth consume 
Life in the unproductive shades of death. 
Fall prone : the pale inhabitants come forth, 
And, happy in their unforeseen release 
From all the rigors of restraint, enjoy 
The terrors of the day that sets them free. 
Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, 
Freedom ! whom they that lose thee so regret. 
That e'en a judgment, making way for thee, 
Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake ? 
Such evil sin hath wrought ; and such a flame 
Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, 
And, in the furious inquest that it makes 
On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. 
The very elements, though each be meant 
The minister of man to serve his wants, 
Conspire against him. With his breath he draws 
A plague into his blood, and can not use 
Life's necessary means, but he must die. 
Storms rise to o'erwhelm him ; or, if stormy winds 
Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise. 
And, needing none assistance of the storm, 
26 



402 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. 
The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, 
Or make his house his grave ; nor, so content, 
Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, 
And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. 
What then ? Were they the wicked above all, 
And we the riohteous, whose fast-anchored isle 
Moved not, while theirs was rocked, like a light skiff, 
The sport of every wave ? No : none are clear, 
And none than we more guilty. But where all 
Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts 
Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark ; 
May punish, if he please, the less, to warn 
The more malignant. If he spared not them. 
Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, 
Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee ! 
Happy the man who sees a God employed 
In all the good and ill that checker life, 
Resolving all events, with their effects 
And manifold results, into the will 
And arbitration wise of the Supreme ! 
Did not his eye rule all things, and intend 
The least of our concerns (since from the least 
The greatest oft originate) ; could chance 
Find place in his dominion, or dispose 
One lawless particle to thwart his plan, — 
Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen 
Contingence might alarm him, and disturb 
The smooth and equal course of his affairs. 
This truth. Philosophy, though eagle-eyed 
In Nature's tendencies, oft overlooks ; 
And, having found his instrument, forgets, 
Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, 
Denies, the power that wields it. God proclaims 
His hot displeasure against foolish men 
That live an atheist life ; involves the heavens 
In tempests ; quits his grasp upon the winds, 
And gives them all their fury ; bids a plague 
Kindle a fiery bile upon the skin. 
And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. 
He calls for Famine ; and the meager fiend 
Blows mildew from beneath his shriveled lips, 
And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, 
And desolates a nation at a blast. 
Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells 
Of homogeneal and discordant springs 
And principles ; of causes, how they work, 
By necessary laws, their sure effects 
Of action and re-action : he has found 
The source of the disease that Nature feels, 
And bids the world take heart, and banish fear. 
Thou fool ! wiU thy discovery of the cause 



WILLIA-M COWPER. 403 

Suspend tlie effect, or lieal it ? Has not God 

Still wrought by means since first lie made the world ? 

And did he not of old employ his means 

To drown it ? What is his creation less 

Than a capacious reservoir of means, 

Formed for his use, and ready at his Avill ? 

Go dress thine eyes with eye-salve ; ask of him, 

Or ask of whomsoever he has taught. 

And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. 

England, with all thy faults, I love thee still, 
My country ! and, while yet a nook is left 
Where English minds and manners may be found, 
Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy clime 
Be fickle, and thy year, most part, deformed 
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost, 
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies. 
And fields without a flower, for warmer France 
With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves 
Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle-bowers. 
To shake thy senate, and from hights sublime 
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire 
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task ; 
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake 
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart 
As any thunderer there. And I can feel 
Thy follies too, and with a just disdain 
Frown at effeminates, whose very looks 
Reflect dishonor on the land I love. 
How, in the name of soldiership and sense. 
Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth 
And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er 
With odors, and as profligate as sweet. 
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle-wreath, 
And love when they should fight, — when such as these 
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark 
Of her magnificent and awful cause ? 
Time was when it was praise and boast enough 
In every clime, and travel where we might, 
That we were born her children ; praise enough 
To fill the ambition of a private man, 
That Chatham's language was his mother-tongue, 
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. 
Farewell, those honors ! and farewell Avith them 
The hope of such hereafter ! They have fallen 
Each in his field of glory, — one in arms, 
And one in council ; Wolfe upon the lap 
Of smiling Victory that moment won, 
And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame. 
They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still 
Consulting England's happiness at home, 
Secured it by an unforgiving frown 
If any wronged her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, 



404 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Put so much of his heart into his act, 
That his example had a magnet's force ; 
And all were swift to follow whom all loved. 
Those suns are set. Oh ! rise some other such, 
Or all that we have left is empty talk 
Of old achievements, and despair of new. 

Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float 
Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck 
With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, 
That no rude savor maritime invade 
The nose of nice nobility ! Breathe soft. 
Ye clarionets ! and softer still, ye flutes ! 
That winds and waters, lulled by magic sounds, 
May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore. 
True, we have lost an empire ; let it pass. 
True, we may thank the perfidy of France 
That picked the jewel out of England's crown 
With all the cunning of an envious shrew ; 
And let that pass ('twas but a trick of state) : 
A brave man knows no malice, but at once 
Forgets in peace the injuries of war. 
And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. 
And shamed as we have been, to the very beard 
Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved 
Too weak for those decisive blows that once 
Insured us mastery there, we yet retain 
Some small pre-eminence ; we justly boast 
At least superior jockey ship, and claim 
The honors of the turf as all our own. 
Go, then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, 
And show the shame ye might conceal at home 
In foreign eyes ! Be grooms, and win the plate 
Where once your nobler fathers won a crown 1 
'Tis generous to communicate your skill 
To those that need it. Folly is soon learned ; 
And, under such preceptors, who can fail? 

There is a pleasure in poetic pains 
Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, 
The expedients and inventions multiform. 
To which the mind resorts in chase of terms 
(Though apt, yet coy, and difiicult to win) 
To arrest the fleeting images that fill 
The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, 
And force them sit till he has penciled off 
A faithful likeness of the forms he views ; 
Then to dispose his copies with such art 
That each may find its most propitious light, 
And shine by situation hardly less 
Than by the labor and the skill it cost, — 
Are occupations of the poet's mind 
So pleasing, and that steal away the thought 
With such address from themes of sad import, 



WILLIAM COWPER. 405 

That, lost in his own musings, happy man ! 

He feels the anxieties of life, denied 

Their wonted entertainment, all retire. 

Such joys has he that sings. But, ah ! not such, 

Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. 

Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps 

Aware of nothing arduous in a task 

They never undertook, they little note 

His dangers or escapes, and, haply, find 

Their least amusement where he found the most. 

But is amusement all? Studious of song, 

And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, 

I would not trifle merely, though the world 

Be loudest in their praise who do no more. 

Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay ? 

It may correct a foible, may chastise 

The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, 

Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch. 

But where are its sublimer trophies found ? 

"What vice has it subdued ? whose heart reclaimed 

By rigor, or whom laughed into reform ? 

Alas ! Leviathan is not so tamed : 

Laughed at, he laughs again, and, stricken hard, 

Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, 

That fear no discipline of human hands. 

The pulpit, therefore (and I name it filled 
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware 
With what intent I touch that holy thing), — 
The pulpit (when the satirist has at last. 
Strutting and vaporing in an empty school. 
Spent all his force, and made no proselyte), — 
I say, the pulpit (in the sober use 
Of its legitimate peculiar powers) 
Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, 
The most important and effectual guard. 
Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. 
There stands the messenger of truth, there stands 
The legate of the skies, his theme divine, 
His office sacred, his credentials clear. 
By him the violated law speaks out 
Its thunders ; and by him, in strains as sweet 
As angels use, the gospel whispers peace. 
He stablishes the strong, restores the weak. 
Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart. 
And, armed himself in panoply complete 
Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms 
Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule 
Of holy discipline, to glorious war. 
The sacramental host of God's elect. 
Are all such teachers ? Would to Heaven all were ! 
But, hark ! the doctor's voice ! Fast wedged between 
Two empirics he stands, and with swolu cheeks 



406 ENGLISH LITERATUEB. 

Inspires tlie news, his trumpet. Keener far 

Than all invective is his bold harangue 

While through that public organ of report 

He hails the clergy, and, defying shame, 

Announces to the world his own and theirs. 

He teaches those to read whom schools dismissed, 

And colleges untaught ; sells accent, tone, 

And emphasis in score ; and gives to prayer 

The adagio and andante it demands. 

He grinds divinity of other days 

Down into modern use, transforms old print 

To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes 

Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. 

Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware ? 

Oh, name it not in Gath ! it can not be 

That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. 

He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, 

Assuming thus a rank unknown before, — 

Grand caterer and dry-nurse of the Church 1 

I venerate the man whose heart is warm, 
Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, 
Co-incident, exhibit lucid proof 
That he is honest in the sacred cause : 
To such I render more than mere respect, 
Whose actions say that they respect themselves. 
But loose in morals, and in manners vain ; 
In conversation frivolous ; in dress 
Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse ; 
Frequent in park with lady at his side, 
Ambling, and prattling scandal as he goes ; 
But rare at home, and never at his books, 
Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card ; 
Constant at routs ; familiar with a round 
Of ladyships ; a stranger to the poor ; 
Ambitious of preferment for its gold, 
And well prepared by ignorance and sloth, 
By infidelity, and love of world, 
To make God's work a sinecure ; a slave 
To his own pleasures, and his patrons' pride, — 
From such apostles, O ye mitered heads ! 
Preserve the Church, and lay not careless hands 
On skulls that can not teach, and will not learn. 

Would I describe a preacher such as Paul, 
Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own, 
Paul should himself direct me. I would trace 
His master-strokes, and draw from his design. 
I would express him simple, grave, sincere ; 
In doctrine uncorrupt ; in language plain. 
And plain in manner ; decent, solemn, chaste, 
And natural in gesture ; much impressed 
Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, 
And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds 



EOBEET BUENS. 407 

May feel it too ; affectionate in look, 
And tender in address, as well becomes 
A messenger of grace to guilty men. 
Behold the picture ! Is it like ? — like whom ? 
The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, 
And then skip down again ; pronounce a text ; 
Cry " Hem ! " and, reading what they never wrote 
Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work. 
And with a well-bred whisper close the scene. 



ROBERT BURiSrS. 

1759-1796. 

Chiefly renowned for his pathetic and spirit-stimng son^. Other proofs of his 
high rank as a poet are "The Cotter's Satm-day Night," "Elegy on Captain Mat- 
thew Henderson," " The Jolly Beggars," " Tain O'Shanter," an^ others. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

My loved, my honored, much-respected friend, 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end ; 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise. 
To you I sing in simple Scottish lays 

The lowly train in Life's sequestered scene. 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways, — 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been : 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November cliill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; 

The shortening winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae^ the pie ugh ; 

The blackening trains o' craws to their repose ; 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, 

(This night his weekly moiP is at an end,) 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend ; 
And, weary, o'er the moor his course does hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view. 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree : 
The expectant wee^ things, toddlin'-*, stacher^ through 

To meet their dad wi' flicterin'*^ noise and glee. 

1 From. 2 Labor. s Little. * Tottering in their walk. 6 Stagger. e Fluttering. 



408 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

His wee bit ingle^ blinkin'^ bonnily, 

His clean liearth-stane, his tlirifty wifie's smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a'^ his weary, carking^ cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labor and his toil. 

Beljrre^ the elder bainis come drappin' in, 

At service out amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca'® the pleugh, some herd, some tentie^ rin 

A cannie^ errand to a neebor-town. 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e. 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw^-new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won^° penny-fee" 
To help her parents dear if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers :" 
The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed fleet; 

Each tells the uncos'^ that he sees or hears. 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points the view : 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears. 

Gars" auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress's command 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent^^ hand ; 

An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk or play: 
" An', oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

An' mind your duty duly, morn an' night. 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright." 

But, hark 1 a rap comes gently to the door : 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor-lad cam' o'er the moor 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; 
With heart-struck anxious care inquires his name ; 

While Jenny hafflins^^ is afraid to speak : 
Weel pleased, the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben ;" 
A strappan^^ youth, he taks the mother's eye : 

Blythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 

The father cracks^* of horses, pleughs, and kye.^ 

IFire. 2 giiining at intervals. 3 All. * Consuming. s By and by. ^ Drive. 
7 Cautious. 8 Kindly dexterous. » Kne, handsome. ^o Sorely-won. " Wages. 
" Asks. 13 News. 1* Makes. i5 Diligent. le Partly. i^ Into the parlor. 

" Tall and handsome. " Converses. *o Kiae, cows. 



ROBERT BURNS. 409 

Tlie youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 
But, blate^ an' iaithfu',^ scarce can weel behave : 

The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.' 

O happy love, where love like this is found ! 

O heartfelt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare, — 
" If Heaven a drauo;ht of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.'* 

Is there in human form that bears a heart, 

A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, 
That can, with studied, sly, insnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth 1 

Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,* 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, 
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, — 

The healsome parritch,^ chief o' Scotia's food : 
The soupe^ their only hawkie'' does afford, 

That 'yont^ the hallan^ snugly chows her cood. 
The dame brings forth in eomplimental mood, ' 

To grace the lad, her weel-hained^° kebbuck," fell ;^^ 
An' aft he's pressed, an' aft he ca's it good : 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell 
How 'twas a towmoad'^^ auld" sin^^ lint was i' the bell,^' 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 

They round the ingle form a circle wide, 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace 

The big ha' Bible," ance his father's pride. 
His bonnet reverently is laid aside, 

His lyart^^ haffets^'-' wearin' thin an^ bare : 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide 

He wales-*^ a portion with judicious care ; 
Ai^d " Let us worship God " he says wi' solemn air. 

1 Bashful. 2 Reluctant. 3 The rest, the others. * Mercy, kind feeling. 

E Oatmeal-pudding. g gauce, milk. ^ A pet name for a cow. 8 Beyond. 

8 A partition-wall in a cottage. lo Carefully-preserved. ^i A cheese. 

12 Biting to the taste. i3 Twelve-month, i* Old. ^^ Since, i" Flax was in blossom. 
" The great Bible kept in the hall. " Q-ray. ^ The temples, the sides of th'e head, 
»o Chooses, 



410 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's^ wild, warbling measures rise ; 

Or plaintive Martyrs,^ worthy of the name ; 
Or noble Elgin^ beats the heavenward flame, — 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 

The tickled ear no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, — 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire ; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, — 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He who bore in heaven the second name 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped, 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How he, who, lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. 

Then, kneeling down, to heaven's Eternal King 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope " springs exulting on triumphant wing " 

That thus they- all shall meet in future days, 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise 

In such society, yet still more dear. 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace except the heart ! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, 
And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

1 The names of Scottish paalm-tiines. 



ROBERT BURNS. 411 

Then homeward all take off their several way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And protfer up to Heaven the Avarm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his Avisdom sees the best. 

For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her loved at home, revered abroad. 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings : 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God." 
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road. 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
What is a lordling's pomp ? — a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined J 

O Scotia, my dear, my native soil, 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blessed with health and peace, and sweet content I 
And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while. 
And stand, a wall of fire, around their much-loved isle. 

O Thou who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart, 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part I 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward :) 
Oh ! never, never, Scotia's realm desert ; 

But still the patriot and the patriot-bard 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 

ON TURNING ONE DOVTS WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem : 
To spare thee now is past my power, 

Thou bonnie sem. 



412 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonnie lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast. 
When upward springing, blythe, to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north. 
Upon thy early, humble birth: 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm ; 
Scarce reared above the parent-earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield. 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield ; 
But thou, beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unasuming head 

In humble guise ; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade, 
By love's simplicity betrayed. 

And guileless trust ; • 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard 

On Life's rough ocean luckless starred : 

Unskillful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er. 

Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink ; 
Till, wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink. 

E'en thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate. 
That fate is thine, — no distant date: 
Stern Ruin's plowshare drives, elate. 

Full on thy bloom, 
Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight 

Shall be thy doom ! 



DISTINGUISHED POETS AND DRAMATISTS. 413 



TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Thou lingering star with lessening ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary fi'om my soul was torn. 
O Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 

That sacred hour can I forget, 

Can I forget the hallowed grove, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity can not efface 

Those records dear of transports past : 
Thy image at our last embrace ! — 

Ah, little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; 
The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar 

Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest ; 

The birds sang love on every spray ; 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaimed the speed of winged day. 

Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes. 

And fondly broods with miser care : 
Time but the impression deeper makes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear. 
My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid ? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? 



DISTINGUISHED POETS AND DRAMATISTS. 

George Crabbe. — 17n4-1832. " The Library," '• The Village," " The News- 
paper," " The Parish Register," " The Borough, ""^ " Tales of the Hall." 

Thomas Moore. — 1779-1852. Celebrated for his " h'ish Melodies," " Lalla 
Kookh," " The Fudge Family in Paris," and " The Epicurean." 

Samuel Rogers. — 1763-1855. The benevolent London banker and poet 
" The Pleasures of Memory," " Columbus," "Human Life," and "Italy." 



414 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

James Hogg (the Ettrick Shepherd). — 1770-1835. "The Queen's Wake," 
*' Madoc of the Moor," " The Pilgrims of the Sun ; " other poems, and several novels. 

James Montgomery. — 1771-1854. "Greenland," "The Pelican Island," 
"The Wanderer in Switzerland," "The West Indies," "Prison Amusements," 
" The World before the Flood," and other poems. 

Felicia Hemans. — 1793-1835. "The Forest Sanctuary," "The Voice of 
Spring," "The Graves of a Household," "The Pahn-Ti'ce," "The Sunbeam," 
and many popular pieces; " The Vespers of Palermo," a tragedy. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. — 1792-1822. "Queen Mab," "Alastor," "The 
Revolt of Islam," "Prometheus Unbound," "The Cenci," "The Cloud," "The 
Skylark," and " The Sensitive Plant," are full of beauty of thought and ex- 
pression. 

John Keats. — 1795-1820. " Endymion," " Hyperion," " Lamia," " Isabella," 
and " The Eve of St. Agnes." A young poet of high promise. 

Henry Kirke White. — 1785-1806. A volume of poems. 

Leigh Hunt. — 1784-1859. Genial and graceful poet and critic. "A Story of 
Rimini," " The Palfrey," " A Legend of Florence; " essays, sketches, and memoirs. 

Reginald Heber. — 1783-1826. "Palestine;" "Europe, or Lines on the 
Present War; " hymn, " From Greenland's Icy Mountains." 

Robert Tannahill. — 1774 -1810. Some Scottish songs. 

Hannah More. — 1745-1833. "The Inflexible Captive," "Percy," and 
"The Fatal Falsehood," tragedies ; " Ccelebs in Search of a Wife;" and many 
other popular tales and prose works. 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan. — 1751-1816. Dramatist, orator, and statesman. 
"The School for Scandal;" "The Critic," a farce; " Speech in Trial of Warren 
Hastings." 

Joanna Baillie. — 1762-1851. Several volumes of plaj^s, minor poems, and 
songs, among which are " De Montfort " and " Count Basil." 

Michael Bruce. — 1746-1767. "Lochleven," "An Elegy written in Spring." 

Sir William Jones. — 1746-1794. " Song of Hafiz," " Hindoo Wife." 

John Logan. — 1748-1788. "The Cuckoo," "The Countr}^ in Autumn," 
"Runnymede." 

Robert Ferguson. — 1751-1774. " Guid Braid Claith," "To the Tron Kirk 
Bell." 

William Gifford. — 1756-1826. "The Bseviad," "The Maviad;" editor of 
"The Quarterly." 

William Sotheby. — 1757-1833. "Orestes," "Saul," "Italy;" translations 
from Wieland, Virgil, Homer. 

William L. Bowles. — 1762-1850. "Sonnets," "Sorrows of Switzerland," 
" Missionary of the Andes." 

James Grahame. — 1765-1811. "The Sabbath;" "Mary, Queen of Scots." 

Robert Bloomfield. — 1766-1823. "The Farmer's Boy," " Rural Tales," 
" Mayday with the Muses." 

J. HooKHAM Frere. — 1769-1846. "Most Interesting Particulai's relating to 
King Arthur, by the Brothers Whistlecraft." 

Hon. William R. Spencer. — 1770-1834. "Beth Gelert," and minor poems; 
translator of "■ Lenore." 

Mary Tighe. — 1773-1810. " Psyche, in six cantos." 

John Leyden. — 1775-1811. " Scenes of Infancv," " The Mermaid," " Ode to 
a Gold Chain." 

James and Horace Smith. — 1775-1839. "Rejected Addresses." 

George Croly. — 1780 -1860. "Paris in 1815," "Angel of the World," 
" Catiline," " Salathiel." 

Allan Cunningham. — 1784-1842. " Scottish Songs," "Sir Marmaduke Max- 
well," " The Maid of Elvan," " Life of Wilkie." 



EDMUND BURKE. 415 

William Tennant. — 1785-1848. "Anster Fair," " Thane of Fife," " Dinging 
Down of the Cathedral." 

Ebenezer Elliott. — 1781-1749. *' Corn-law Rhymes." 

Richard Bauiiam. — 1788-1845. " Ingoldsb}'- Legends," " My Cousin Nicho- 
las." 

John Keble. — 1790. " The Christian Year." 

Charles Wolfe. — 1791-1823. " Burial of Sir John Moore," " Jugurtha iu 
Prison." 

Robert Pollok. — 1799-1827. " The Course of Time." 

Richard Citmberland. — 1732-1811. "The West-Indian," "The Wheel of 
Fortune." 

George Colman. — 1733 -1794. "The Jealous Wife," "The aandestine 
Marriage." 

Thomas Holcroft. — 1745 -1809. "The Road to Ruin," "The Deserted 
Daughter." 

George Colman the Younger. — 1762-1836. "John Bull," " Heir-at-Law," 
"Poor Gentleman," "Newcastle Apothecary," "Lodgings for Single Gentlemen." 

Charles R. Maturin. — Died in 1824. " Bertram," a tragedy; " Women." 



EDMUND BURKE. 

1730-1797. 

One of the first of English orators and statesmen, author of the celebrated " Es- 
say on the Sublime and Beautiful," "Reflections on the Revolution in France," 
and other essays and orations. 



CHARACTER OF JUNIUS. 

Where, Mr. Speaker, shall we look for the origin of this rel- 
axation of the laws and of all government ? How comes this 
Junius to have broken through the cobwebs of the law, and to 
range uncontrolled, unpunished, through the land ? The myrmi- 
dons of the court have been long, and are still, pursuing him in 
vain. They will not spend their time upon me or you : no ! they 
disdain such vermin when the mighty boar of the forest, that has 
broken through all their toils, is before them. But what will all 
their efforts avail ? No sooner has he wounded one than he lays 
dovvm another dead at his feet. For my part, when I saw his 
attack upon the king, I own my blood ran cold. I thought he 
had ventured too far, and that there was an end of his triumphs. 
Not that he liad not asserted many truths : yes, sir, there are in 
that composition many bold truths by which a wise prince might 
profit. But, wliile I expected from this daring flight his final ruin 
and fall, behold him rising still higher, and coming down souse 
upon both Houses of Parliament ! Yes, he did make you his 



416 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

quarry, and you still bleed from the wounds of his talons. You 
crouched, and still crouch, beneath liis rage. Nor has he dreaded 
the terror of 3^our brow, sir: he has attacked even you, — he has; 
and I believe you have no reason to triumph in the encounter. 
In short, after carrying away our royal eagle in his jjounces, and 
dashing him against a rock, he has laid you prostrate. Kings, 
Lords, and Commons are but the sport of his fury. Were he a 
member of this house, what might not be expected from his 
knowledge, his firmness, and integrity ! He would be easily 
known by his contempt of all danger, by his penetration, by his 
vigor. Nothing would escape his vigilance and activity : bad 
ministers could conceal nothing from his sagacity ; nor coidd 
promises or threats mduce him to conceal any thing from the 
public. 

PERORATION IN THE IMPEACHMENT OF WARREN HASTINGS. 

My lords, we have now laid before you the whole conduct of 
Warren Hastings, — foul, wicked, nefarious, and cruel as it has 
been ; and we ask. What is it that we want here to a great act 
of national justice ? Do we want a cause, my lords ? You have 
the cause of oppressed princes, of undone women of the first rank, 
of desolated provinces, and of wasted kingdoms. 

Do 3^ou want a criminal, my lords ? When was there so much 
iniquity ever laid to the charge of any one ? No, my lords : you 
must not look to punish any other such delinquent from India. 
Warren Hastings has not left substance enough in India to nour- 
ish such another delinquent. 

My lords, is it a prosecutor you want ? You have before you 
the Commons of Great Britain as prosecutors ; and I believe, my 
lords, that the sun, in his beneficent progress round the world, 
does not behold a more glorious sight than that of men, separated 
from a remote people by the material bonds and barriers of Nature, 
united by the bond of a social and moral community, — all the 
Commons of England resenting as their own the indignities and 
cruelties that are offered to all the people of India. 

Do you want a tribunal ? My lords, no example of antiquity, 
nothing in tiie modern world, nothing in the range of human im- 
agination, can supply us with a tribunal like this. My lords, here 
we see virtually, in the mind's eye, that sacred majest}^ of the 
crown, under whose authority you sit, and whose power you exer- 
cise. We have here the heir-apparent to the crown. We have 
here all the branches of the royal family in a situation between 
majesty and subjection. My lords, we have a great hereditary 
peerage here, — those who have their own honor, the honor of their 
ancestors and of their posterity, to guard. We have here a new 



EDMUND BURKE. 417 

nobility, who have risen, and exalted themselves by various mer- 
its, by great military services, which have extended the fame of 
this country from the rising to the setting sun. We have persons 
exalted from the practice of the law, from tlie place in which they 
administered high though subordinate justice, to a seat here, to 
enlighten with their knowledge and to strengthen with their 
votes those principles which have distinguished the courts in 
which they have presided. My lords, 3^ou have here, also, the 
lights of our religion : you have the bishops of England. You have 
the representatives of that religion, which says that their God is 
love, that the very vital spirit of their institution is charity. 

My lords, these are the securities which we have in all the con- 
stituent parts of this house. We know them, we reckon, we rest 
upon them, and commit safely the interests of India and of hu- 
manity into your hands. Therefore it is with confidence, that, 
ordered by the Commons, 

I impeach Warren Hastings, Esq., of high crimes and misde- 
meanors. 

I impeach him in the name of the Commons of Great Britain 
in Parliament assembled, whose parliamentary trust he has 
betrayed. 

I impeach him in the name of all the Commons of Great Brit- 
ain, whose national character he has dishonored. 

I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose laws, 
rights, and liberties he has subverted; whose properties he has 
destro^'^ed ; whose country he has laid waste and desolate. 

I impeach him in the name and by virtue of those eternal 
laws of justice which he has violated. 

I impeach him in the name of human nature itself, which he 
has cruelly outraged, injured, and oppressed in both sexes, in 
every age, rank, situation, and condition of life. 



TERROR A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. 

No passion so eifectually robs the mind of all its powers of 
acting and reasoning as fear; for, fear being an apprehension of 
pain or death, it operates in a manner that resembles actual pain. 
Whatever, therefore, is terrible with regard to sight, is sublime 
too, whether this cause of terror be endued with greatness of 
dimensions, or not; for it is impossible to look on anything as 
trifling or contemptible that maj' be dangerous. There are many 
animals, who, though far from being large, are yet capable of rais- 
ing ideas of the sublime, because they are considered as objects 
of terror; as serpents, and poisonous animals of almost all kinds. 
Even to things of great dimensions, if we annex any adventitious 
27 



418 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

idea of terror, tliey become, without comparison, greater. An even 
plain of a vast extent of land is certainly no mean idea : the pros- 
pect of such a plain may be as extensive as a prospect of the 
ocean ; but can it ever fill the mind with any thing so great as 
the ocean itself? This is owing to several causes : but it is owing 
to none more than to this, — that the ocean is an object of no 
small terror. 

SYMPATHY A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. 

It is by the passion of sympathy that we enter into the con- 
cerns of others ; that we are moved as they are moved, and are 
never suffered to be indifferent spectators of almost any thing 
which men can do or suffer. For sympathy must be considered 
as a sort of substitution, b}'- which we are put into the place of 
another man, and affected in a good measure as he is affected : so 
that this passion may either partake of the nature of those which 
regard self-preservation, and, turning upon pain, may be a source 
of the sublime ; or it may turn upon ideas of pleasure, and tlien 
whatever has been said of the social affections, whether they 
regard society in general, or only some particular modes of it, may- 
be applicable here. 

It is by this principle chiefly that poetry, painting, and other 
affecting arts, transfuse their passions from one breast to another, 
and are often capable of grafting a delight on wretchedness, mis- 
ery, and death itself. It is a common observation, tliat objects 
which in the reality would shock, are, in tragical and such like 
representations, the source of a very high species of pleasure. 
This, taken as a fact, has been the cause of much reasoning. This 
satisfaction has been commonly attributed, first to the comfort we 
receive in considering that so melancholy a story is no more than 
a fiction, and next to the contemplation of our own freedom from 
the evils we see represented. 1 am afraid it is a practice much 
too common in inquiries of this nature to attribute the cause of 
feelings which merely arise from the mechanical structure of our 
bodies, or from the natural frame and constitution of our minds, 
to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on the objects 
presented to us ; for I have some reason to apprehend that the 
influence of reason in producing our passions is nothing near so 
extensive as is commonly believed. 



UNCERTAINTY A SOURCE OF THE SUBLIME. 

A LOW, tremulous, intermitting sound is productive of the sub- 
lime. It is worth while to examine this a little. The fact itself 
must be determined by every man's own experience and reflec- 



EDMUND BURKE. 419 

tion. I have always observed that night increases our terror 
more, perhaps, than any thing else. It is our nature, when we do 
not know what may happen to us, to fear the worst that can hap- 
pen ; and hence it is that uncertainty is so terrible, that we often 
seek to be rid of it at the hazard of a certain mischief Now, 
some low, confused, uncertain sounds leave us in the same fearful 
anxiety concerning their causes, that no light, or an uncertain 
light, does concerning the objects that surround us : — 

" A faint shadow of uncertain light, 
Like as a lamp whose life doth fade away ; 
Or as the moon, clothed with cloudy night. 
Doth show to him who walks in fear and great affright." 

But light now appearing, and now leaving us, and so off and on, 
is even more terrible than total darkness ; and sorts of uncertain 
sounds are, when the necessary dispositions concur, more alarm- 
ing than a total silence. 

OF WORDS. 

Natural objects aifect us by the laws of that connection which 
Providence has establislied between certain motions and configu- 
rations of bodies and certain consequent feelings in our minds. 
Painting affects in the same manner, but with the superadded 
pleasure of imitation. Architecture affects by the laws of nature 
and the law of reason ; from which latter result the rules of pro- 
portion, which make a work to be praised or censured, in the 
whole or in some part, when the end for which it was designed 
is or is not properly answered. But, as to words, the}^ seem to 
me to affect us in a manner very difterent from that in which we 
are affected by natural objects, or hj painting or architecture. Yet 
words have as considerable a share in exciting ideas of beauty and 
of the sublime as any of those, and sometimes a much greater 
than any of them : therefore an inquiry into the manner by 
which they excite such emotions is far from being unnecessary in 
a discourse of this kind. 



THE COMMON EFFECT OF POETRY, NOT BY RAISING IDEAS 
OF THINGS. 

The common* notion of the power of poetry and eloquence, as 
well as that of words in ordinary conversation, is, that they affect 
the mind by raising in it ideas of those things for which custom 
has appointed them to stand. To examine the truth of this no- 
tion, it may be requisite to observe, that words may be divided 
into three sorts. The first are such as represent many simple 



420 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ideas, united by nature to form some one determinate composi- 
tion ; as man, horse, tree, castle, &c. These I call aggregate 
words. The second are those that stand for one simple idea of 
such compositions, and no more ; as red, blue, round, square, and 
the like. These I call simple abstract words. The third are 
those which are formed by a union, an arbitrary union, of both 
the others, and of the various relations between them in greater 
or lesser degrees of complexity ; as virtue, honor, persuasion, ma- 
gistrate, and the like. These I c^W compound abstract words. 
Words, I am sensible, are capable of being classed into more curi- 
ous distinctions : but these seem to be natural, and enough for our 
purpose ; and they are disposed in that order in M-liich they are 
commonly taught, and in which the mind gets the ideas for which 
they are substituted. I shall begin with the third sort of words, 
— compound abstracts, — such as virtue, honor, persuasion, docili- 
ty. Of these I am convinced, that, whatever jDower they may 
have on the passions, they do not derive it from an}' representa- 
tion raised in the mind of the things for which the}^ stand. As 
compositions, they are not real essences, and hardly cause, I think, 
any real ideas. Nobody, I believe, immediately on hearing the 
sounds virtue, liberty, or honor, conceives any precise notions of 
the particular modes of action and thinking, together with the 
mixed and simple ideas, and the several relations of them, for 
which these words are substituted : neither has he any general 
idea compounded of them ; for, if he had, then some of those par- 
ticular ones, though indistinct f)erhaps, and confused, might come 
soon to be perceived. But this, I take it, is hardl}' ever the case : 
for put 3^ourself upon analyzing one of these words, and you must 
reduce it from one set of general words to another, and then into 
the simple abstracts and aggregates, in a much longer series than 
may be at first imagined, before any real idea emerges to light, 
before you come to discover any thing like the first principles of 
such compositions ; and, when you have made such a discovery of 
the original ideas, the effect of the composition is utterlj^ lost. A 
train of thinking of this sort is much too long to be pursued in 
the ordinary ways of conversation ; nor is it at all necessar}' that 
it should. Such words are, in reality, but mere sounds ; but they 
are sounds, which, being used on particular occasions, wherein we 
receive some good, or suffer some evil, or see others affected with 
good or evil, or which we hear applied to other interesting things 
or events, and being applied in such a variet}^ 0/ cases that we 
know readily by habit to what things they belong, they produce 
in the mind, whenever they are afterward mentioned, effects sim- 
ilar to those of their occasions. The sounds being often used 
without reference to any particular occasion, and carrying still 
their first imprecsions, they at last utterly lose their connection 



EDlVrUND BURKE. 421 

with the particular occasions that gave rise to them ; yet the 
sound, without any annexed notion, continues to operate as 
before. 



GENERAL WORDS BEFORE IDEAS. 

Mr, Locke has somewhere observed with his usual sagacity, 
that most general words, those belonging to virtue and vice, good 
and evil, especially, are taught before the particular modes of ac- 
tion to which they belong are presented to the mind, and with 
them the love of the one, and the abhorrence of the other ; for the 
minds of children are so ductile, that a nurse, or any person about 
a child, by seeming pleased or displeased with any thing, or even 
any word, may give the dispositions of the child a similar turn. 
When, afterward, the several occurrences in life come to be ap- 
plied to these words, and that which is pleasant often appears 
under the name of the evil, and what is disagreeable to nature is 
called good and virtuous, a strange confusion of ideas and affec- 
tions arises in the minds of many, and an appearance of no small 
contradiction between their notions and their actions. There are 
many who love virtue, and who detest vice, — and this not from 
hypocrisy or affectation, — who, notwithstanding, very frequently 
act ill and wickedly in particulars without the least remorse, be- 
cause these particular occasions never come into view when the 
passions on the side of virtue were so warmly affected by certain 
words heated originally by the breath of others : and for this 
reason it is hard to repeat certain sets of words, though owned 
by themselves unoperative, without being in some degree affected, 
especially if a warm and affecting tone of voice accompanies 
them; as, suppose, 

" Wise, valiant, generous, good, and gi-eat." 

These words, by having no application, ought to be inoperative ; 
but, when words commonly sacred to great occasions are used, Ave 
are affected by them even without the occasions. When words 
which have been generally so applied are put together without 
any rational view, or in such a manner that they do not rightly 
agree with each other, tlie style is called bombast : and it 
requires, in several cases, much good sense and experience to be 
■guarded against the force of such language ; for, when propriety 
is neglected, a greater number of these affecting words may be 
taken into the service, and a greater variety may be indulged in 
combining them. 



422 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THE EFFECTS OF WORDS. 



If words have all their possible extent of power, three eifects 
arise in the mind of the hearer. The first is the sound; the sec- 
ond, the picture, or representation, of the thing signified by the 
sound; the third is the affection of the soul produced by one or by 
both of the foregoing. Compounded abstract words, of which we 
have been speaking (honor, justice, liberty, and the like), produce 
the first and the last of these effects, but not the second. Simple 
abstracts are used to signify some one simple idea, without much 
adverting to others which may chance to attend it ; as blue, green, 
hot, cold, and the like : these are capable of affecting all three of 
the purposes of words-; as the aggregate words, man, castle, horse, 
&c., are in a yet higher degree. But I am of opinion that the 
most general effect, even of these words, does not arise from their 
forming pictures of the several things they would represent in the 
imagination, because, on a very diligent examination of my own 
mind, and getting others to consider theirs, I do not find that 
once in twenty times any such picture is formed ; and, when it is, 
there is most commonly a particular effort of the imagination for 
that purpose. But the aggregate words operate, as I said of the 
compound abstracts, not by presenting any image to the mind, 
but by having, from use, the same effect on being mentioned that 
their original has when it is seen. Suppose we were to read a 
passage to this effect : " The River Danube rises in a moist and 
mountainous soil in the heart of Germany, where, winding to and 
fro, it waters several principalities, until, turning into Austria, 
and leaving the walls of Vienna, it passes into Hungary : there, 
with a vast flood, augmented by the Saave and the Drave, it quits 
Christendom; and, rolling through the barbarous countries which 
border on Tartary, it enters by many mouths into the Black Sea." 
In this description, man}; things are mentioned; as mountains, 
rivers, cities, the sea, &c. But let anybody examine himself, 
and see whether he has had impressed on his imagination any 
pictures of a river, mountain, watery soil, Germany, &c. Indeed, 
it is impossible, in the rapidity and quick succession of words in 
conversation, to have ideas both of the sound of the word and of 
the thing represented: besides, some words expressing real essences 
are so mixed with others of a general and nominal import, that it 
is impracticable to jump from sense to thought, from particulars 
to generals, from things to words, in such a manner as to answer 
the purposes of life ; nor is it necessary that we should. 



JUNIUS. 423 



JUNIUS. 

Author of a series of Letters, commencing Jan. 21, 1T69. No compositions bet- 
ter illustrate the flexibility and power of the English language. For fierce invective 
and terrible sarcasm in elegant dress and appropriate ornament, " The Letters of 
Junius " are unsurpassed. They have been attributed, among others, to Burke and 
Sir Philip Francis ; but the weight of evidence is in favor of the latter. 



FROM THE DEDICATION TO THE ENGLISH NATION. 

I DEDICATE to you a collection of Letters written by one of 
yourselves for the common benefit of us all. They would never 
have grown to this size without your continued encouragement 
and applause. To me they originally owe nothing but a healthy, 
sanguine constitution. Under your care, they have thriven : to 
yoiL they are indebted for whatever strength or beaut^^ they pos- 
sess. When kings and ministers are forgotten, when the force 
and direction of personal satire is no longer understood, and when 
measures are only felt in their remotest consequences, this book 
will, I believe, be found to contain principles worthy to be trans- 
mitted to posterity. When you leave the unimpaired, hereditary 
freehold to your children, you do but half your duty. Both liberty 
and property are precarious unless the possessors have sense and 
spirit enough to defend them. This is not the language of vanity. 
If I am a vain man, my gratification lies within a narrow circle. 
I am the sole depositary of my own secret; and it shall perish with 
me. 

I can not doubt that you will unanimously assert the freedom of 
election, and vindicate your exclusive right to choose your repre- 
sentatives ; but other questions have been started on which your 
determination should be equally clear and unanimous. Let it be 
impressed upon your minds, let it be instilled into jouy children, 
that the liberty of the press is the 'palladium of all the civil, polit- 
ical, and religious rights of an Englishman ; and that the right of 
juries to return a general verdict in all cases whatsoever is an 
essential part of our constitution, not to be controlled or limited by 
the judges, nor in any shape questionable by the legislature. The 
power of King, Lords, and Commons, is not an arbitrary power. 
They are the trustees, not the owners, of the estate. The fee- 
simple is in us. They can not alienate ; they can not waste. When 
we say that the legislature is supreme., we mean that it is the 
highest power known to the constitution ; that it is the highest 
in. comparison with the other subordinate powers established by 
the laws. In this sense, the word " supreme " is relative, not abso- 



424 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

lute. The power of the legislature is limited, not only by the 
general rules of natural justice and the welfare of the community, 
but by the forms and principles of our particular constitution. If 
this doctrine be not true, we must admit that King, Lords, and 
Commons have no rale to direct their resolutions but merely their 
own will and pleasure. They might unite the legislative and exec- 
utive power in the same hands, and dissolve the constitution hy an 
act of Parliament. But I am persuaded you will not leave it to the 
choice of seven hundred persons, notoriously corrupted by the 
crown, whether seven millions of their equals shall be freemen or 
slaves. 

These are truths unquestionable. If they make no impression, 
it is because they are too vulgar and notorious. But the inatten- 
tion or indifference of the nation has continued too long. You 
are roused at last to a sense of your danger. The. remedy will 
soon be in your power. If Junius lives, you shall often be re- 
minded of it. If, when the opportunity presents itself, you neg- 
lect to do your duty to yourselves and to posterity, to God and 
to your countrj^, I shall have one consolation left in common with 
the meanest and basest of mankind, — civil liberty may still last 
the Hfe of Ju]S"ius. 



TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BEDFORD. 

My Lord, — You are so little accustomed to receive any marks 
of respect or esteem from the public, that if, in the following lines, 
a compliment, or expression of applause, should escape me, I fear 
you would consider it as a mockery of your established character, 
and perhaps an insult to your understanding. You have nice 
feelings, my lord, if we may judge from your resentments. Cau- 
tious, therefore, of giving offense where you have so little de- 
served it, I shall leave the illustration of your virtues to other 
hands. Your friends have a privilege to play upon the easiness 
of your temper ; or, possibly, they are better acquainted with jowv 
good qualities than I am. You have done good b}^ stealth. The 
rest is upon record. You have still left ample room for specula- 
tion when panegyric is exhausted. 

You are, indeed, a very considerable man. The highest rank, 
a splendid fortune, and a name glorious till it was yours, were 
sufficient to have supported j'ou with meaner abilities than I think 
you possess. From the first, you derived a constitutional claim to 
respect; from the second, a natural extensive authority: the last 
created a partial expectation of hereditary virtues. The use you 
have made of these uncommon advantages might have been more 
honorable to yourself, but could not be more instructive to man- 



JUNIUS. 425 

kind. We may trace it in the veneration of your country, the 
choice of your friends, and in the accomplishment of every san- 
guine hope which the public might have conceived from the illus- 
trious name of Russell. 

The eminence of your station gave you a commanding prospect 
of your duty. The road which led to honor was open to your 
view. You could not lose it by mistake ; and you had no tempta- 
tion to depart from it by design. Compare the natural dignity 
and importance of the richest peer of England, the noble inde- 
pendence which he might have maintained in Parliament, and the 
real interest and respect which he might have acquired, not only 
in Parliament, but through the whole kingdom, — compare these 
glorious distinctions with the ambition of holding a share in gov- 
ernment, the emoluments of a place, the sale of a borough, or the 
purchase of a corporation; and, though you may not regret the 
virtues which create respect, you may see with anguish how 
much real importance and authority 3'ou have lost. Consider the 
character of an independent, virtuous Duke of Bedford ; imagine 
what he might be in this country ; then reflect one moment upon 
what you are. If it be possible for me to withdraw my attention 
from the fact, I will tell you in theorj^ what such a man might be. 

Conscious of his own weight and importance, his conduct in 
Parliament would be directed b}^ nothing but the constitutional 
duty of a peer. He would consider himself as a guardian of the 
laws. Willing to support the just measures of government, but 
determined to observe the conduct of the minister with suspicion, 
he would oppose the violence of faction with as much firmness as 
the encroachments of prerogative. He would be as little capable 
of bargaining with the minister for places for himself or his de- 
pendants as of descending to mix himself in the intrip:ues of oppo- 
sition. Whenever an imjiortant question called for his opinion in 
Parliament, he would be heard by the most profligate minister 
with deference and respect. His authority would either sanctify 
or disgrace the measures of government. The people would look 
up to him as to their protector ; and a virtuous prince would have 
one honest man in his dominions in whose integrity and judg- 
ment he might safely confide. If it should be the will of Provi- 
dence to afflict him with a domestic misfortune, he would submit 
to the stroke with feeling, but not without dignit}^ He woifld 
consider the people as his children, and receive a generous, heart- 
felt consolation in the sympathizing tears and blessings of his 
couiitry. 

Your Grace may, probably, discover something more intelligible 
in the negative part of this illustrious character. Tlie man I have 
described Avould never prostitute his dignity in Parliament by an 
indecent violence, either in opposing or defending a minister. He 



426 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



^■^^ 



would not at one moment rancorously persecute, at another basely 
cringe to, the favorite of his sovereign. After outraging the royal 
dignity with peremptory conditions little short of menace and 
hostility, he would never descend to the humility of soliciting an 
interview with the favorite, and of oifering to recover at any 
price the honor of his friendship. Though deceived, perhaps, in 
liis youth, he would not, through the course of a long life, have 
invariably chosen his friends from among the most profligate of 
mankind. His own honor would have forbidden him from mixing 
his private pleasures or conversation with jockeys, gamesters, 
blasphemers, gladiators, or buffoons. He would then have never 
felt, much less would he have submitted to, the humiliating, dis- 
honest necessity of engaging in the interest and intrigues of his 
dependants, of suppljdng their vices, or relieving their beggar}'-, 
at the expense of his country. He would not have betrayed such 
ignorance or such contempt of the constitution as openly to 
avow in a court of justice the purchase and sale of a borough. 
He would not have thought it consistent with his rank in the 
state, or even with his personal importance, to be the little tyrant 
of a little corporation. He would never have been insulted with 
virtues which he had labored to extinguish, nor suffered the dis- 
grace of a mortifying defeat which has made him ridiculous and 
contemptible even to the few by whom he was not detested. I 
reverence the afEictions of a good man; his sorrows are sacred: 
but how can we take part in the distresses of a man whom we can 
neither love nor esteem, or feel for a calamity of which he him- 
self is insensible ? Where was the father's heart, when he could 
look for or find an immediate consolation for the loss of an only 
son in consultations and bargains for a place at court, and even in 
the misery of balloting at the India House ? 



ENCOMIUM ON LORD CHATHAM. 

It seems I "am a partisan of the great leader of the opposition. 
If the charge had been a reproach, it should have been better sup- 
ported. I did not intend to make a public declaration of the 
respect I bear Lord Chatham. I well knew what unworthy con- 
clusions would be drawn from it. But I am called upon to deliver 
my opinion ; and surely it is not in the little censure of Mr. Home 
to deter me from doing signal justice to a man, who, I confess, has 
grown upon my esteem. As for the common, sordid views of ava- 
rice, or any purpose of vulgar ambition, I question whether the 
applause of Junius would be of service to Lord Chatham. My 
vote will hardly recommend him to an increase of his pension, or 
to a seat in the cabinet : but if his ambition be upon a level with 



JUNIUS. 427 

his understanding; if he judges of what is truly honorable for 
himself with the same superior genius which animates and directs 
him to eloquence in debate, to wisdom in decision, — even the pen 
of Junius shall contribute to reward him. E-ecorded honors shall 
gather round his monument, and thicken over him. It is a solid 
fabric, and will support the laurels that adorn it. I am not con- 
versant in the language of panegja'ic ; these praises are extorted 
from me : but they will wear well ; for they have been dearly 
earned. 



TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE LORD CAMDEN. 

My Lord., — I turn with pleasure from that barren waste in 
which no salutary plant takes root, no verdure quickens, to a char- 
acter fertile, as I willinglj^ believe, in everj^ great and good quali- 
fication. I call upon you, in the name of the English nation, to 
stand forth in defense of the laws of your country, and to exert 
in the cause of truth and justice those great abilities with which 
3^ou were intrusted for the benefit of mankind. Your lordship's 
character assures me that you will assume that principal part 
which belongs to you, in supporting the laws of England against 
a wicked judge, who makes it the occupation of his life to mis- 
interpret and pervert them. If you decline this honorable office, 
I fear it will be said, that, for some months past, you have kept too 
much company with the Duke of Grafton. When the contest 
turns upon the interpretation of the laws, you can not, without a 
formal surrender of all 3''our reputation, yield the post of honor 
even to Lord Chatham. Considering the situation and abilities 
of Lord Mansfield, I do not scruple to affirm, with the most sol- 
emn appeal to God for my sincerity, that, in 7?i^ judgment, he is 
the very worst and most dangerous man in the kingdom. Thus 
far I have- done my duty in endeavoring to bring him to punish- 
ment. But mine is an inferior, ministerial office in the temple of 
justice. I have bound the victim, and dragged him to the altar. 

The man who fairly and completelj'- answers my arguments 
shall have my thanks and my applause. My heart is already 
with him. I am ready to be converted. I admire his morality, 
and would gladly subscribe to the articles of his faith. Grateful 
as I am to the Good Being whose bounty has imparted to me this 
reasoning intellect, whatever it is, I hold myself proportionably 
indebted to him from whose enlightened understanding another 
ray of knowledge communicates to mine. But neither should I 
think the most exalted faculties of the human mind a gift worthy 
of the Divinity, nor any assistance in the improvement of them 



428 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

a subject of gratitude to my fellow-creature, if I were not satisfied 
that really to inform the understanding corrects and enlarges 
the heart. 



FROM HIS LETTER TO THE KING. 

To the Printer of " The Puhllc Advertiser," — When the com- 
plaints of a brave and powerful people are observed to increase in 
proportion to the wrongs they have suffered ; when, instead of 
sinking into submission, they are roused to resistance, — the time 
will soon arrive at which every inferior consideration must yield 
to the security of the sovereign, and to the general safety of the 
state. There is a moment of difficulty and danger at which flat- 
tery and falsehood can no longer deceive, and simplicity itself can 
no longer be misled. Let us suppose it arrived. Let us suppose 
a gracious, well-intentioned prince made sensible at last of the 
"great duty he owes to his people, and of his own disgraceful situ- 
ation ; that he looks round liim for assistance, and asks for no 
advice but how to gratify the wishes and secure the happiness 
of his subjects. In these circumstances, it may be matter of cmti- 
ovi^' speculation to consider, if an honest man were permitted to 
approach a king, in what. terms he would address himself to his 
sovereign. Let it be imagined, no matter how improbable, that 
the first prejudice against his character is removed; that the 
ceremonious difficulties of an audience are surmounted; that he 
feels himself animated by the purest and most honorable affections 
to his king and country; and that the great person whom he ad- 
dresses has spirit enough to bid him speak freely, and understand- 
ing enough to listen to him with attention. Unacquainted with 
the vain impertinence of forms, he would deliver his sentiments 
with dignity and firmness, but not without respect. 

Sir, — It is the misfortune of your life, and originally the 
cause of every reproach and distress which has attended your gov- 
ernment, that you should never have been acquainted with the 
language of truth until you heard it in the complaints of your 
people. It is not, however, too late to correct the error of your 
education. We are still inclined to make an indulgent allowance 
for the pernicious lessons you received in jouv youth, and to form 
the most sanguine hopes from the natural benevolence of j^our 
disposition. We are far from thinking you capable of a direct, 
deliberate purpose to invade those original rights of your subjects 
on which all their civil and political liberties depend. Had it 
been possible for us to entertain a suspicion so dishonorable to 
your character, we should long since have adopted a style of re- 
monstrance very distant from the humility of complaint. The 



JUNIUS. 429 

doctrine inculcated by our laws, that the king can do no ivy^ong^ 
is admitted without reluctance. We separate the amiable, good- 
natured prince from the foll}^ and treachery of his servants, and 
the private virtues of the man from the vices of his government. 
Were it not for this just distinction, I know not whether your 
Majesty's condition, or that of the English nation, would deserve 
most to be lamented. I would prepare your mind for a favorable 
reception of truth by removing every painful, offensive idea of 
personal reproach. Your subjects, sir, wish for nothing but that : 
as they are reasonable and affectionate enough to separate your 
person from your government, so you^ in your turn, should distin- 
guish between the conduct which becomes the permanent dignity 
of a king and that which serves onl}^ to promote the temporary 
interest and miserable ambition of a minister. 

You ascended the throne with a declared, and, I doubt not, a 
sincere resolution of giving universal satisfaction to your subjects. 
You found them pleased with the novelty of a young prince 
whose countenance promised even more than his words, and lo^^al 
to you, not only from principle, but passion. It w^as not a cold 
profession of allegiance to the first magistrate, but a partial, ani- 
mated attacliment to a favorite prince, the native of their country. 
They did not wait to examine your conduct, nor to be determined 
by experience, but gave you a generous credit for the future bless- 
ings of your reign, and paid you in advance the dearest tribute of 
their affections. Such, sir, was once the disposition of a people 
who now surround your throne with reproaches and complaints. 
Do justice to yourself. Banish from j^our mind those unworthy 
opinions with which some interested j^ersons have labored to pos- 
sess you. Distrust the men who tell you that the English are 
naturally light and inconstant; that they complain Avithout a 
cause. Withdraw your confidence equally from all parties, — 
from ministers, favorites, and relations 5 and let there be one mo- 
ment in your life in Avhich you have consulted j^our ow^n under- 
standing. 

YoLi have still an honorable part to act. The affections of ^^our 
subjects may still be recovered. But, before 3'ou subdue their 
hearts, you must gain a noble victory over your own. Discard 
those little personal resentments which have too long directed 
your public conduct. Pardon this man the remainder of his pun- 
ishment ; and, if resentment still prevails, make it, what it should 
have been long since, an act, not of mercy, but contempt. He 
will soon fall back into his natural station, — a silent senator, and 
hardly supporting the w^eekly eloquence of a newspaper. The 
gentle breath of peace would leave him on the surface, neglected 
and unremoved : it is only the tempest that lifts him from his 
place. 



430 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



^ 



Without consulting your minister, call together your whole 
council. Let it appear to the public that you can determine and 
act for yourself. Come forward to your people. Lay aside the 
wretched formalities of a king, and speak to your subjects with 
the spirit of a man, and in the language of a gentleman. Tell 
them you have been fatally deceived. The acknowledgment will 
be no disgrace, but rather an honor to your understanding. Tell 
them you are determined to remove every cause of complaint 
against your government ; that you will give your confidence to 
no man who does not possess the confidence of your subjects ; and 
leave it to themselves to determine, by their conduct at a future 
election, whether or no it be in reality the general sense of the 
nation that their rights have been arbitrarily invaded by the pres- 
ent House of Commons, and the constitution betrayed. They 
will then do justice to their representatives and to themselves. 

These sentiments, sir, and the style they are conveyed in, may 
be offensive, perhaps, because they are new fo you. Accustomed 
to the language of courtiers, you measure their affections by the 
vehemence of their expressions ; and, when they only praise you 
indirectly, you admire their sincerity. But this is not a time to 
trifle with your fortune. They deceive you, sir, who tell you that 
you have many friends whose affections are founded upon a prin- 
ciple of personal attachment. The first foundation of friendship 
is, not the power of conferring benefits, but the equality with which 
they are received, and r}iay be returned. The fortune which made 
you a king forbade you to have a friend : it is a law of nature 
which can not be violated with impunity. The mistaken prince 
who looks for friendship will find a favorite, and in that favorite 
the ruin of his affairs. 

The people of England are loyal to the house of Hanover, not 
from a vain preference of one family to another, but from a con- 
viction that the establishment of that family was necessary to the 
support of their civil and religious liberties. This, sir, is a prin- 
ciple of allegiance equally solid and rational, fit for Englishmen 
to adopt, and well worthy of your Majesty's encouragement. We 
can not long be deluded by nominal distinctions. The name of 
Stuart, of itself, is only contemptible : armed with the sovereign 
authority, their principles are formidable. The prince who imi- 
tates their conduct should be warned by their example, and, 
while he plumes himself upon the security of his title to the 
crown, should remember, that, as it was acquired by one revolu- 
tion, it may be lost by another. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON". 431 

SAMUEL JOHNSOK 

1709-1784. 

Distinguished compiler of an English dictionary; author of " Easselas, a Tale 
of Abyssinia; " many poems and satires; moral essays in the "Rambler" and 
" Idler," periodicals ; " Lives of the Poets." His influence on the literature of the 
day was very great ; and his heavy, classical style is admirably characterized by 
Goldsmith, who said to him, " If you ivere to lorite a fable, about little fishes, doctor, 
you would make the little fishes talk like whales^ 



LETTER TO LORD CHESTERFIELD. 

My Lord, — I have, been lately informed by the proprietor 
of "The World/' that two papers, in which my Dictionary is 
recommended to the public, were written by your lordship. To be 
so distinguished is an honor, which, being very little accustomed 
to favors from the great, I know not well how to receive, or in 
what terms to acknowledge. 

When, upon some slight encouragement, I first visited your 
lordship, I was overpowered, like the rest of mankind, by the 
enchantment of your address, and could not forbear to wish that 
I might boast myself le vainqueur du vainqueur de la terre, — 
that I might obtain that regard for which I saw the world 
contending ; but I found my attendance so little encouraged, 
that neither pride nor modest}^ would suffer me to continue 
it. When I had once addressed your lordship in public, I 
had exhausted all the art of pleasing which a retired and un- 
courtly scholar can possess. I had done all that I could; 
and no man is well pleased to have his all neglected, be it 
ever so little. 

Seven years, my lord, have now passed since I waited in your 
outward rooms, or was repulsed from your door ; during which 
time I have been pushing on my work through difficulties of 
which it is useless to complain ; and have brought it, at last, to 
the verge of publication, without one act of assistance, one word 
of encouragement, or one smile of favor. Such treatment I did 
not expect ; for I never had a patron before. 

The shepherd in "Virgil" grew at last acquainted with Love, 
and found him a native of the rocks. 

Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a 
man struggling for life in the water, and, when he has reached 
the ground, encumbers him with help ? The notice which j'-ou 
have been pleased to take of my labors, had it been early, had 
been kind : but it has been delayed till 1 am indifferent, and can 



432 ENGLISH LITER ATURE. 

not enjoy it ; till I am solitary, and can not impart it ; till I 
am known, and do not want it. I hope it is no very cynical 
asperity not to confess obligations where no benefit has been re- 
ceived, or to be unwilling that the public should consider me as 
owing that to a patron which Providence has enabled me to do for 
myself. 

Having carried on my work thus far with so little obligation to 
any favorer of learning, I shall not be disappointed though I 
should conclude it, if less be possible, with less ; for I have been 
long wakened from that dream of hope in which I once boasted 
myself with so much exultation, 
My lord, 

Your lordship's most humble, 

Most obedient servant, 

Samuel Johnson. 

EXTRACT FROM THE PREFACE TO THE DICTIONARY. 

In hope of giving longevity to that which its own nature forbids 
to be immortal, I have devoted this book, the labor of years, to 
the honor of my country, that we may no longer yield the palm of 
philology, without a contest, to the nations of the Continent. The 
chief glory of every people arises from its authors : whether I 
shall add any thing by my own writings to the reputation of 
English literature must be left to time. Much of my life has 
been lost under the pressures of disease ; much has been trifled 
away ; and much has always been spent in provision for the day 
that was passing over me : but I shall not think my emplo^^ment 
useless or ignoble, if, by my assistance, foreign nations and distant 
ages gain access to the propagators of knowledge, and understand 
the teachers of truth ; if m}^ labors afford light to the repositories 
of science, and add celebrity to Bacon, to Hooker, to Milton, and 
to Boyle. 

When I am animated by this wish, I look with pleasure on my 
book, however defective, and deliver it to the world with the spirit 
of a man that has endeavored well. That it will immediately 
become popular, I have not promised to mj^self. A few wild 
blunders and risible absurdities, from which no work of such 
multiplicity was ever free, may for a time furnish folly with 
laughter, and harden ignorance into contempt. But useful dili- 
gence will at last prevail : and there can never be wanting some 
who distinguish desert, who will consider that no dictionary of a 
living tongue ever can be perfect, since, while it is hastening to 
publication, some words are budding, and some falling away ; that 
a whole life can not be spent upon s^mtax and etymology, and that 
even a whole life would not be sufficient ; that he whose design 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 433 

includes whatever language can express must often speak of what 
he does not understand ; that a writer will sometimes be hurried 
by eagerness to the end, and sometimes faint with weariness under 
a task which Scaliger compares to the labors of the anvil and the 
mine ; that what is obvious is not always known, and what is 
known is not alwaj'-s present ; that sudden fits of inadvertency 
will surprise vigilance, slight avocations will seduce attention, 
and casual eclipses of the mind will darken learning ; and that 
the writer shall often in vain trace his memory at the moment 
of need for that which yesterday he knew with intuitive readiness, 
and which will come uncalled into his thoughts to-morrow. 

In this work, when it shall be found that much is omitted, let 
it not be forgotten that much, likewise, is performed ; and though 
no book was ever spared out of tenderness to the author, and the 
world is little solicitous to know whence proceeded the faults of 
that which it condemns, yet it may gratify curiosity to inform it, 
that " The English Dictionary " was written with little assistance 
of the learned, and without any patronage of the great ; not in the 
soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic 
bowers, but amid inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and 
in sorrow. It may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to 
observe, that, if our language is not here fully displayed, I have 
only failed in an attempt which no human powers have hitherto 
completed. If the lexicons of ancient tongues, now immutably 
fixed, and comprised in a few volumes, be yet, after the toil of 
successive ages, inadequate and delusive ; if the aggregated 
knowledge and co-operating diligence of the Italian academicians 
did not secure them from the censure of Beni ; if the embodied 
critics of France, when fifty years had been spent upon their 
work, were obliged to change its economy, and give their second 
edition another form, — I may surely be contented without the 
praise of perfection, which if I could obtain in this gloom of 
solitude, what would it avail me ? I have protracted my work till 
most of those whom I wished to please have sunk into the grave ; 
and success and miscarriage are empty sounds. I therefore dis- 
miss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or hope from 
censure or from praise. 

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE. 

"Life," says Seneca, "is a voyage, in the progress of which we 
are perpetually changing our scenes : we first leave childhood 
behind us, then youth, then the years of ripened manhood, then 
the better and more pleasing part of old age." The perusal of 
this passage having incited in me a train of reflections on the 
state of man, the incessant fluctuation of his wishes, the gradual 

28 



434 EN-GLISH LITERATURE. 

change of his disposition to all external objects, and the thought- 
lessness with which he floats along the Stream of Time, I sank 
into a slumber amidst my meditations, and on a sudden found 
my ears filled with the tumult of labor, the shouts of alacrity, 
the shrieks of alarm, the whistle of winds, and the dash of 
waters. 

My astonishment for a time repressed my curiosity ; but soon 
recovering myself so far as to inquire whither we were going, and 
what was the cause of such clamor and confusion, I was told that 
they were launching out into the Ocean of Life ; that we had 
already passed the Straits of Infancy, in which multitudes had 
perished, some by the weakness and fragility of their vessels, and 
more by the folly, perverseness, or negligence of those who under- 
took to steer them ; and that we were now on the main sea, 
abandoned to the winds and billows, without any other means of 
security than the care of the pilot, whom it was always in our 
power to choose among great numbers that offered their direction 
and assistance. 

I then looked round with anxious eagerness, and, first turning 
my eyes behind me, saw a stream flowing through flowery 
islands, which every one that sailed along seemed to behold 
with pleasure, but no sooner touched, than the current, which, 
though not noisy or turbulent, was yet irresistible, bore him 
away. Beyond these islands, all was darkness ; nor could any of 
the passengers describe the shore at which he first embarked. 

Before me, and on each side, was an expanse of waters violently 
agitated, and covered with so thick a mist, that the most per- 
spicacious eye could see but a little way. It appeared to be 
full of rocks and whirlpools ; for many sank unexpectedly while 
they were courting the gale with full sails, and insulting those 
whom they had left behind. So numerous, indeed, were the 
dangers, and so thick the darkness, that no caution could confer 
security. Yet there were many, who, by false intelligence, 
betrayed their followers into whirlpools, or, by violence, pushed 
those whom they found in their way against the rocks. 

The current was invariable and insurmountable ; but though 
it was impossible to sail against it, or to return to the place 
that was once passed, yet it was not so violent as to allow no 
opportunities for dexterity or courage, since, though none could 
retreat back from danger, yet they might often avoid it by oblique 
direction. 

It was, however, not very common to steer with much care or 
prudence ; for, by some universal infatuation, every man appeared 
to think himself safe, though he saw his consorts ever^^ moment 
sinking round him : and no sooner had the waves closed over 
them than their fate and misconduct were forgotten ; the voyage 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 435 

was pursued with the same jocund confidence ; every man con- 
gratulated himself upon the soundness of his vessel, and be- 
lieved himself able to stem the whirlpool in which his friend was 
swallowed, or glide over the rocks on which he was dashed. 
'Nov was it often observed that the sight of. a wreck made any 
man change his course : if he turned aside for a moment, lie 
soon forgot the rudder, and left himself again to the disposal of 
chance. 

This negligence did not proceed from indifference, or from 
weariness of their present condition : for not one of those who 
thus rushed upon destruction failed, when he was sinking, to call 
loudly upon his associates for that help which could not now be 
given him ; and many spent their last moments in cautioning 
others against the folly by which they were intercepted in the 
midst of their course. Their benevolence was sometimes praised ; 
but their admonitions were unregarded. 

The vessels in which we had embarked, being confessedly 
unequal to the turbulence of the Stream of Life, were visibly 
impaired in the course of the voyage ; so that every passenger 
was certain, that how long soever he might, by favorable 
accidents or by incessant vigilance, be preserved, he must sink 
at last. 

This necessity of perishing might have been expected to sadden 
the gay, and intimidate the daring, at least to keep the melan- 
choly and timorous in perpetual torments, and hinder them from 
any enjoyment of the varieties and gratifications which Nature 
offered them as the solace of their labor. Yet, in effect, none 
seemed less to expect destruction than those to whom it was 
most dreadful : they all had the art of concealing their dangers 
from themselves; and those who knew their inability to bear 
the sight of the terrors that embarrassed their way took care 
never to look forward, but found some amusement for the present 
moment, and generally entertained themselves by playing with 
Hope, who was the constant associate of the Voj^age of Life. 

Yet all that Hope ventured to promise, even to those whom 
she favored most, was, not that they should escape, but that 
they should sink last; and with this promise every one was 
satisfied, though he laughed at the rest for seeming to believe 
it. Hope, indeed, apparently mocked the credulity of her com- 
panions ; for, in proportion as their vessels grew leaky, she re- 
doubled her assurances of safety : and none were more busy in 
making provisions for a long voyage than they whom all but 
themselves saw likely to perish soon by irreparable decay. 

In the midst of the Current of Life was the Gulf of Intemper- 
ance, — a dreadful whirlpool, interspersed with rocks, of which the 
pointed crags were concealed under water, and the tops covered 



436 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

with herbage on which Ease spread couches of repose, and with 
shades where Pleasure warbled the song of invitation. Within 
sight of these rocks all who sailed on the Ocean of Life must 
necessarily pass. Keason, indeed, was always at hand to steer 
the passengers through a narrow outlet by which they might 
escape : but very few could, b}^ her entreaties or remonstrances, be 
induced to put the rudder into her hand without stipulating that 
she should approach so near unto the rocks of Pleasure, that they 
might solace themselves with a short enjoyment of that delicious 
region ; after which they always determined to pursue their course 
without any other deviation. 

Reason was too often prevailed upon so far by these promises 
as to venture her charge within the eddy of the Gulf of Intem- 
perance, where, indeed, the circumvolution was weak, but yet in- 
terrupted the course of the vessel, and drew it by insensible ro- 
tations towards the center. She then repented her temerity, and, 
with all her force, endeavored to retreat : but the draught of the 
gulf was generally too strong to be overcome ; and the passenger, 
having danced in circles with a pleasing and giddy velocity, was 
at last overwhelmed and lost. Those few whom Reason was 
able to extricate, generally suffered so many shocks upon the 
points which shot out from the rocks of Pleasure, that they 
were unable to continue their course with the same strength 
and facility as before, but floated along timorously and feebly, 
endangered by every breeze, and shattered by every ruffle of 
the water, till they sank by slow degrees, after long struggles 
and innumerable expedients, always repining at their own folly, 
and warning others against the first a23proach to the Gulf of 
Intemperance. 

There were artists who professed to repair the breaches and stop 
the leaks of the vessels which had been shattered on the rocks of 
Pleasure. Many appeared to have great confidence in their skill ; 
and some, indeed, were preserved by it from sinking, who had re- 
ceived only a single blow: but I remarked that few vessels lasted 
long which had been much repaired ; nor was it found that the 
artists themselves continued afloat longer than those who had 
least of their assistance. 

The onl}^ advantage, which, in the Voyage of Life, the cautious 
had above the negligent, was that they sank later and more 
suddenly' ; for thej^ passed forward till they had sometimes seen 
all those in whose company they had issued from the Straits of 
Infancy perish in the way, and at last were overset by a cross- 
breeze, without the toil of resistance or the anguish of expectation. 
But such as had often fallen against the rocks of Pleasure com- 
monly subsided by sensible degrees, contended long with the 
encroaching waters, and harassed themselves by labors that scarce 
Hope herself could flatter with success. 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 437 

As I was looking upon the various fate of the multitude 
about me, I was suddenly alarmed with an admonition from 
some unknown Power : " Gaze not idly upon others when thou 
thyself art sinking. Whence is this thoughtless tranquillity, 
when thou and they are equally endangered ? " I looked, and, 
seeing the Gulf of Intemperance before me, started and awaked. 

Bambler. 



THE RIGHT IMPROVEMENT OF TIME. 

It is usual for those who are advised to the attainment of 
any new qualification to look upon themselves as required to 
change the general course of their conduct, to dismiss business and 
exclude pleasure, and to devote their days and nights to a par- 
ticular attention. But all common degrees of excellence are 
attainable at a lower price. He that should steadily and resolutely 
assign to any science or language those interstitial vacancies 
which intervene in the most crowded variety of diversion or em- 
ployment would find every day new irradiations of knowledge, 
and discover how much more is to be hoped from frequency and 
perseverance than from violent efforts and sudden desires, — efforts 
which are soon remitted when they encounter difficulty, and 
desires, which, if they are indulged too often, will shake off 
the authority of reason, and range capriciously from one object to 
another. . 

The disposition to defer every important design to a time of 
leisure and a state of settled uniformity, proceeds, generally, from 
a false estimate of the human power. If we except those gigantic 
and stupendous intelligences who are said to grasp a system by 
intuition, and bound forward from one series of con-elusions to 
another, without regular steps through intermediate propositions, 
the most successful students make their advances in knowledge 
by short flights, between each of which the mind may lie at rest. 
For ever}^ single act of progression, a short time is sufficient ; and 
it is only necessary, that, whenever that time is afforded, it be well 
employed. 

Few minds will be long confined to severe and laborious medi- 
tation ; and, when a successful attack on knowledge has been 
made, the student recreates himself witli the contemplation of his 
conquest, and forbears another incursion till the new-acquired 
truth has become familiar, and his curiosity calls upon him for 
fresh gratifications. Whether the time of intermission is spent in 
company or in solitude, in necessary business or in voluntary 
levities, the understanding is equally abstracted from the object 
of inquiry ; but perhaps, if it be detained by occupations less 



438 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

pleasing, it returns again to study with greater alacrity than 
when it is glutted with ideal pleasures and surfeited with in- 
temperance of application. He that will not suffer himself to be 
discouraged by fancied impossibilities may sometimes find his 
abilities invigorated by the necessity of exerting them in short 
intervals, as the force of a current is increased by the contraction 
of its channel. 

From some cause like this, it has probably proceeded, that, 
among those who have contributed to the advancement of learning, 
many have risen to eminence in opposition to all the obstacles 
which external circumstances could place in their way, — auiidst 
the tumult of business, the distresses of poverty, or the dissipations 
of a wandering and unsettled state. A great part of the life of 
Erasmus was one continual peregrination : ill supplied with the 
gifts of fortune, and led from city to city, and from kingdom to 
kingdom, by the hopes of patrons and preferment, — hopes which 
always flattered and always deceived him, — he yet fdund means, 
by unshaken constancy, and a vigilant improvement of those 
hours, which, in the midst of the most restless activity, will 
remain unengaged, to write more than another in the same con- 
dition would have hoped to read. Compelled by want to attend- 
ance and solicitation, and so much versed in common life that he 
has transmitted to us the most perfect delineation of the manners 
of his age, he joined to his knowledge of the world such ap- 
plication to books, that he will stand for ever in the first rank 
of literary heroes. How this proficiency was obtained, he suf- 
ficiently discovers by informing us that " The Praise of Folly," 
one of his most celebrated performances, was composed hy him 
on the road to Italy, lest the hours which he was obliged to 
spend on horseback should be tattled away without regard to 
literature. 

An Italian philosopher expressed in his motto, that time was 
HIS ESTATE, — an estate, indeed, which will produce nothing 
without cultivation, but will always abundantly repay the labors 
of industry, and satisfy the most extensive desires, if no part of 
it be suffered to lie waste by negligence, to be overrun with nox- 
ious plants, or laid out for show rather than for use. 

Bambler. 



TEE DUTY OF FORGIVENESS. 

A WISE man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the 
true value of time, and will not suffer it to pass away in unneces- 
sary pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate 
hatred, and gives up his days and nights to the gloom of malice and 
perturbations of stratagem, can not surely be said to consult his 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 439 

ease. Resentment is a union of sorrow with malignity, — a com- 
bination of a passion which all endeavor to avoid with a passion 
wiiich all concur to detest. The man who retires to meditate 
miscliief, and to exasperate his own rage; whose thoughts are 
employed only on means of distress, and contrivances of ruin; 
whose mind never pauses from the remembrance of his own 
sufferings but to indulge some hope of enjoying the calamities 
of another, — may justly be numbered among the most miserable 
of human beings ; among those who are gailt}^ without reward, 
who have neither the gladness of prosperity nor the calm of 
innocence. 

Whoever considers the weakness both of himself and others 
will not long want persuasives to forgiveness. We know not to 
what degree of malignity any injury is to be imputed; or how 
much its guilt, if we were to inspect the mind of him that 
committed it, would be extenuated by mistake, precipitance, or 
negligence : we can not be certain how much more we feel than 
was intended to be inflicted, or how much we increase the mischief 
to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. We may charge to design 
the effects of accident; we may think the blow violent only 
because we have made ourselves delicate and tender : we are on 
every side in danger of error and of guilt, which we are certain 
to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. 

From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to others 
and ourselves, to domestic tranquillity and to social happiness, no 
man is withheld but by pride, — by the fear of being insulted by 
his adversary, or despised by the world. 

It may be laid down as an unfailing and universal axiom, that 
"all pride is abject and mean." It is always an ignorant, lazy, or 
cowardly acquiescence in a false appearance of excellence, and 
proceeds, not from consciousness of our attainments, but insensi- 
bility of our wants. 

Nothing can be great which is not right. Nothing which 
reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity of the human 
mind. To be driven by external motives from the path which 
our own heart approves, to give way to any thing but conviction, 
to suffer the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower 
our resolves, is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ig- 
nominious slavery, and to resign the right of directing our own 
lives. 

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a con- 
stant and determined pursuit of virtue without regard to present 
dangers or advantages, a continual reference of every action to 
the Divine Will, an habitual appeal to everlasting justice, and an 
unvaried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which 
perseverance only can obtain. But that pride which many who 



440 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

presume to boast of generous sentiments allow to regulate tlieir 
measures has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of 
men, — of beings whose superiority we are under no obligation to 
acknowledge, and who, when we have courted them with the 
utmost assiduity, can confer no valuable or permanent reward; 
of beings who ignorantly judge of what they do not understand, 
or partially determine what they never have examined, and 
whose sentence is, therefore, of no weight till it has received the 
ratification of our own conscience. 

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price 
of his innocence, he that can suffer the delight of such ac- 
clamations to withhold his attention from the commands of the 
universal Sovereign, has little reason to congratulate himself upon 
the greatness of his mind : whenever he awakes to seriousness 
and reflection, he must become despicable in his own eyes, and 
shrink with shame from the remembrance of his cowardice and 
folly. 

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required 
that he forgive : it is, therefore, superfluous to urge any other 
motive. On this great duty, eternity is suspended ; and to him 
that refuses to practice it the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and 
the Saviour of the world has been born in vain. Eambhr. 



PARALLEL BETWEEN DRYDEN AND POPE. 

Integrity of understanding, and nicety of discernment, were 
not allotted in a less proportion to Dryden than to Pope. The 
rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission 
of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts 
and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all 
the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, 
merel}^ for the people ; and when he pleased others he contented 
himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers ; 
he never attempted to make that better which was already good, 
nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He 
wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration : when occasion 
or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present 
moment happened to supply, and, w^hen once it had passed the 
press, ejected it from his mind ; for, when he had no pecuniar^'- 
interest, he had no further solicitude. 

Pope was not content to satisfy : he desired to excel, and there- 
fore always endeavored to do his best. He did not court the 
candor, but dared the judgment, of his reader ; and, expecting no 
indulgence from others, he showed none to himself. He examined 
lines and words with minute and punctilious observation, and re- 



SAMUEL JOHNSON. 441 

touched every part with indefatigable diligence, till he had left 
nothing to be forgiven. 

For this reason, he kept his pieces very long in his hands 
while he considered and reconsidered them. The only poems 
which can be supposed to have been written with such regard to 
the times as might hasten their publication were the two satires 
of "Thirty-eight;" of which Dodsley told me, that they were 
brought to him by the autlior that they might be fairly copied. 
^•Almost ever}^ line," he said, " was then written twice over. 1 
gave him a clean transcript, which he sent some time afterwards 
to me for the press, with almost every line written twice over a 
second time." 

His declaration that his care for his works ceased at their 
publication was not strictly true. His j^^i'ental attention never 
abandoned them : what he found amiss in the first edition, he 
silentlj^ corrected in those tliat followed. He appears to have re- 
vised " The Iliad," and freed it from some of its imperfections ; 
and " The Essay on Criticism " received many improvements after 
its first appearance. It will seldom be found that he altered with- 
out adding clearness, elegance, or vigor. Pope had, perhaps, the 
judgment of Dryden ; but Dryden certainly wanted the diligence 
of Pope. 

In acquired ]?:nowledge, the superiority must be allowed to 
Dryden, whose education was more scholastic, and who, before he 
became an author, had been allowed more time for study, with 
better means of information. His mind has a larger range, and 
he collects his images and illustrations from a more extensive 
circumference of science. Dryden knew more of man in his 
general nature ; and Pope, in his local manners. The notions 
of Dryden were formed by comprehensive speculation, and those 
of Pope by minute attention. There is more dignity in the 
knowledge of Dryden, and more certainty in that of Pope. 

Poetry was not the sole praise of either; for both excelled 
likewise in prose : but Pope did not borrow his prose from his 
predecessor. The style of Dr^^len is capricious and varied : that 
of Pope is cautious and uniform. Drj'den observes the motions of 
his own mind : Pope constrains his mind to his own rules of 
composition. Dryden is sometimes vehement and rapid : Pope is 
alwaj^s smooth, uniform, and gentle. Dr^^den's page is a natural 
field, rising into inequalities, and diversified by the varied exuber- 
ance of abundant vegetation : Pope's is a velvet lawn, shaven by 
the scythe, and leveled b}^ the roller. 

Of genius, — that power which constitutes a poet; that quality 
without which judgment is cold, and knowledge is inert ; that 
energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates, — the 
superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden. 



442 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

It is not to be inferred that of this poetical vigor Pope had only 
a little because Dryden had more ; for every other writer since 
Milton must give place to Pope : and even of Dryden it must 
be said, that, if he has brighter paragraphs, he has not better 
poems. Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited 
by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity : he 
composed without consideration, and published without correction. 
What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, 
was all that he sought, and all tliat he gave. The dilatory 
caution of Pope enabled him to condense his sentiments, to mul- 
tiply his images, and to accumulate all that study might produce, 
or chance might supply. If the flights of Dryden, therefore, are 
higher, Pope continues longer on the wing. If of Dryden's fire 
the blaze is brighter, of Pope's the heat is more regular and 
constant. Dryden often surpasses expectation, and Pope never 
falls below it. Dryden is read with frequent astonishment, and 
Pope with perpetual delight. Life of Pope.. 



SHAKSPFARE. 

Shakspeare is, above all writers, — at least, above all modern 
writers, — the poet of Nature; the poet that holds up to his 
readers a faithful mirror of manners and of life. His characters 
are not modified by the customs of particular places, unpracticed 
by the rest of the world, by the peculiarities of studies or pro- 
fessions which can operate but upon small numbers, or by the 
accidents of transient fashions or temporary opinions : they are 
the genuine progeny of common humanity, such as the world will 
alwa3^s supplj^, and observation will always find. His persons act 
and speak by the influence of those general passions and prin- 
ciples by which all minds are agitated, and the whole system of 
life is continued in motion. In the writings of other poets, a 
character is too often an individual : in those of Shakspeare, it is 
commonly a species. 

It is from this wide extension of design that so much instruction 
is derived. It is this wliich fills the plaj^s of Shakspeare with 
practical axioms and domestic wisdom. It was said of Euripides, 
that every verse was a precept ; and it may be said of Shakspeare, 
that from his works may be collected a system of civil and eco- 
nomical prudence. Yet his real power is not shown in the splendor 
of particular passages, but by the progress of his fable and the 
tenor of his dialogue; and he that tries to recommend him by 
select quotations will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, 
when he oifered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as 
a specimen. 



SAMUEL JOHXSOX. 443 

It will not easily be imagined how much Shakspeare excels in 
accommodating his sentiments to real life but by comparing him 
witli other authors. It v^as observed of the ancient schools of 
declamation, tliat, the more diligently they were frequented, the 
more was tlie student disqualified for the world, because he found 
nothing there which lie should ever meet in any other place. 
The same remark may be applied to every stage but that of 
Sliakspaare. The theater, when it is under any other direction, 
is peopled by such characters as were never seen, conversing in a 
language which was never heard, upon topics which will never 
arise in the commerce of mankind. But the dialogue of this 
author is often so evidently determined by the incident which 
produces it, and is pursued with so much ease and simplicity, that 
it seems scarcely to claim the merit of fiction, but to have been 
gleaned by diligent selection out of common conversation and 
common occurrences. 

Upon every other stage, the universal agent is love, by whose 
power all good and evil is distributed, and every action quickened 
or retarded. To bring a lover, a lady, and a rival, into the fable ; 
to entangle them in contradictory obligations, perplex them with 
oppositions of interest, and harass theni with violence of desires 
inconsistent with each other; to make them meet in rapture, and 
part in agony ; to fill their mouths with hyperbolical joy and out- 
rageous sorrow; to distress them as nothing human ever was 
distressed, to deliver them as nothing human was ever delivered, — 
is the business of a modern dramatist. For this, probability is 
violated, life is misrepresented, and language is dej^raved. But 
love is only one of many passions ; and, as it lias no great in- 
fluence upon the sum of life, it has little operation in the dramas 
of a poet who caught his ideas from the living world, and ex- 
hibited only what he saw before him. He knew that any other 
passion, as it was regular or exorbitant, was a cause of happiness 
or calamity. 

This, therefore, is the praise of Shakspeare, — that his drama 
is the mirror of life ; that he who has mazed his imagination in 
following the phantoms which other writers raise up before him 
may here be cured of his delirious ecstasies by reading human 
sentiments in human language, hy scenes from which a hermit 
may estimate the transactions of the world, and a confessor pre- 
dict the progress of the passions. 

Shakspeare's plays are not, in the rigorous and critical sense, 
either tragedies or comedies, but compositions of a distinct kind, 
exhibiting the real state of sublunary nature, which partakes of 
good and evil, joy and sorrow, mingled with endless variety of 
proportion and innumerable modes of combination, and express- 
ing the course of the world, in which the loss of one is the gain 



444 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

of another; in wliicli, at the same time, the reveler is hasting to 
his wine, and the mourner burying his friend ; in which the 
malignity of one is sometimes defeated by the frolic of another ; 
and many mischiefs and many benefits are done and hindered 
without design. 

Shakspeare has united the powers of exciting laughter and 
sorrow, not only in one mind, but in one composition. Almost 
all his plays are divided between serious and ludicrous characters, 
and, in the successive evolutions of the design, sometimes produce 
seriousness and sorrow, and sometimes levity and laughter. 

That this is a practice contrary to the rules of criticism will be 
readily allowed ; but there is always an appeal open from criticism 
to nature. The end of writing is to instruct ; the end of poetry 
is to instruct by pleasing. That the mingled drama may convey 
all the instruction of tragedy or comedy can not be denied, because 
it includes both in its alternations of exhibition, and approaches 
nearer than either to the appearance of life by showing how 
great machinations and slender designs may promote or obviate 
one another, and the high and the low co-operate in the general 
system by unavoidable concatenation. 

The force of his comic scenes has suffered little diminution 
from the changes made by a century and a half in manners or 
in words. As his personages act upon principles arising from 
genuine passion very little modified by particular forms, their 
pleasures and vexations are communicable to all times and to all 
places : they are natural, and therefore durable. The adventitious 
peculiarities of personal habits are only superficial dyes, bright 
and pleasing for a little while, yet soon fading to a dim tint, with- 
out any remains of former luster : but the discriminations of true 
passion are the colors of Nature ; they pervade the whole mass, 
and can only perish with the body that exhibits them. The 
accidental compositions of heterogeneous modes are dissolved by 
the chance which combined them ; but the uniform simplicity of 
primitive qualities neither admits increase, nor suffers decay. The 
sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another; but the rock 
always continues in its place. TJte stream of tirne, ivhich is con- 
tinually luashing the dissoliihle fabrics of other j^oets, 2^(^sses 
without injury by the adamant of Shakspeare, 

Preface to Shakspeare. 



DAVID HUME. 445 

DAYID HUME. 

1711-1776. 

Famous author of " History of England ; " Moral and Political Essays. Style re- 
markable for simplicity of expression and logical clearness. We select from his 
writings a topic, not best illustrating his power and style, but as one deserving the 
pupil's attention. 

OF THE STANDARD OF TASTE. 

On^e obvious cause why many feel not the proper sentiment of 
beauty is the want of that delicacy of imagination which is requi- 
site to conve}^ a sensibility of those finer emotions. This delicacy 
every one pretends to : every one talks of it, and would reduce 
every kind of taste or sentiment to its standard. But, as our 
intention in this essay is to mingle some light of the understand- 
ing with the feelings of sentiment, it will be proper to give a 
more accurate definition of delicacy than has hitherto been at- 
tempted. And, not to draw our philosophy from too profound a 
source, we shall have recourse to a noted story in ''Don Quixote.'' 

" It is with good reason," says Sancho to the squire with the 
great nose, "that I pretend to have a judgment in wine: this is 
a quality hereditary in our family. Two of my kinsmen were 
once called to give their opinion of a hogshead which was sup- 
posed to be excellent, being old and of a good vintage. One of 
them tastes it, considers it, and, after mature reflection, pro- 
nounces the wine to be good, were it not for a small taste of 
leather which he perceived in it. "The other, after using the 
same precautions, gives also his verdict in favor of the wine, but 
with the reserve of a taste of iron which he could easily distin- 
guish. You can not imagine how much they were both ridiculed 
for their judgment. But who laughed in the end ? On empty- 
ing the hogshead, there was found at the bottom an old key with 
a leathern thong tied to it." 

The great resemblance between mental and bodily taste will 
easily teach us to apply this story. Though it be certain that 
beauty and deformity, more than sweet and bitter, are not quali- 
ties in objects, but belong entirely to the sentiment, internal or 
external, it must be allowed that there are certain qualities in 
objects, which are fitted by nature to produce those particular 
feelings. Now, as these qualities ma}^ be found in a small de- 
gree, or may be mixed and confounded with each other, it often 
happens that the taste is not affected with such minute qualities, 
or is not able to distinguish all the particular flavors amidst the 
disorder in which they are presented. Where the organs are so 



446 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



^' 



fine as to allow nothing to escape them, and at the same time so 
exact as to perceive every ingredient in the composition, — this 
we call delicacy of taste, whether we employ these terms in the 
literal or metaphorical sense. Here, then, the general rules of 
beauty are of use, being drawn from established morals, and 
from the observation of what pleases or displeases when pre- 
sented singly and in a high degree ; and if the same qualities, 
in a continued composition and in a smaller degree, affect not the 
organs with a sensible delight or uneasiness, we exclude the per- 
son from all pretensions to this delicacy. To produce these gen- 
eral rules or avowed patterns of composition is like finding the 
key with the leathern thong, which justified the verdict of San- 
cho's kinsmen, and confounded those pretended judges who had 
condemned them. Though the hogshead had never been emp- 
tied, the taste of the one was still equally delicate, and that of 
the other still equally dull and languid ; but it would have been 
more difficult to have proved the superiority of the former to 
the conviction of every bystander. In like manner, though 
the beauties of writing had never been methodized, or reduced to 
general principles, though no excellent models had ever been ac- 
knowledged, the different degrees of taste would still have sub- 
sisted, and the judgment of one man been preferable to that of 
another ; but it would not have been so easy to silence the bad 
critic, who might always insist upon his particular sentiment, and 
refuse to submit to his antagonist. But when we show him an 
avowed principle of art ; when we illustrate this principle by 
examples whose operation, from his own particular taste, lie ac- 
knowledges to be conformable to the principle ; when we prove 
that the same principle may be applied to the present case, where 
he did not perceive or feel its influence, — -he must conclude, upon 
the whole, that the fault lies in himself, and that he wants the 
delicacy which is requisite to make him sensible of every beauty 
and every blemish in any composition or discourse. 

It is acknowledged to be the perfection of every sense or fac- 
ulty, to perceive with exactness its most minute objects, and allow 
nothing to escape its notice and observation. The smaller the 
objects are which become sensible to the eye, the finer is that 
organ, and the more elaborate its make and composition. A good 
palate is not tried by strong flavors, but by a mixture of small 
ingredients, where we are still sensible of each part, notwithstand- 
ing its minuteness, and its confusion with the rest. In like man- 
ner, a quick and acute perception of beauty and deformity must 
be the perfection of our mental taste ; nor can a man be satisfied 
with himself while he suspects that any excellence or blemish in 
a discourse has passed him unobserved. In this case, the perfec- 
tion of the man, and the perfection of the sense or feeling, are 



DAVID HUME. 447 

found to be united. A very delicate palate, on many occasions, 
may be a great inconvenience both to a man himself and to his 
friends ; but a delicate taste of wit or beauty must always be a 
desirable quality, because it is the source of all the finest 'and 
most innocent enjoyments of which human nature is susceptible. 
In this decision, the sentiments of all mankind are agreed. 
Wherever j^ou can ascertain a delicacy of taste, it is sure to meet 
with approbation ; and the best way of ascertaining it is to appeal 
to those models and principles which have been established by the 
uniform consent and experience of nations and ages. 

But, though there be naturally a wide difference in point of 
delicacy between one person and another, nothing tends further 
to increase and improve this talent than practice in a particular 
art, and the frequent survey or contemplation of a particular spe- 
cies of beauty. When objects of any kind are first presented to 
the eye or imagination, the sentiment which attends them is ob- 
scure and confused, and the mind is, in a great measure, incapable 
of pronouncing concerning their merits or defects. The taste can 
not perceive the several excellences of the performance ; much 
less distinguish the particular character of each excellency, and 
ascertain its quality and degree. If it pronounce the whole in 
general to be beautiful or deformed, it is the utmost that can be 
expected; and even this judgment a person so unpracticed will 
be apt to deliver with great hesitation and reserve. But allow 
him to acquire experience in those objects, his feeling becomes 
more exact and nice. He not only perceives the beauties and 
defects of each part, but marks the distinguishing species of each 
quality, and assigns it suitable praise or blame. A clear and dis- 
tinct sentiment attends him through the whole survey of the 
objects; and he discerns that very degree and kind of approbation 
or displeasure which each part is naturally fitted to produce. The 
mist dissipates which seemed formerly to hang over the object. 
The organ acquires greater perfection in its operations, and can 
pronounce, without danger of mistake, concerning the merits of 
every performance. In a word, the same address and dexterity 
which practice gives to the execution of any work is acquired by 
the same means in the judging of it. 

So advantageous is practice to the discernment of beauty, that, 
before we can give judgment on any work of importance, it will 
even be requisite that that very individual performance be more 
than once perused by us, and be surveyed in different lights with 
attention and deliberation. There is a flutter or hurry of thought 
which attends the first perusal of any piece, and which confounds 
the genuine sentiment of beauty. The relation of the parts is 
not discerned; the true characters of style are little distin- 
guished J the several perfections and defects seem wrapped up 



448 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

in a species of confusion, and present themselves indistinctly to 
the imagination : not to mention that there is a species of beau- 
ty, which, as it is florid and superficial, pleases at first, but, being 
found incompatible with a just expression either of reason or pas- 
sion, soon palls upon the taste, and is then rejected with disdain; 
at least, rated at a much lower value. 

It is impossible to continue in the practice of contemplating 
any order of beauty without being frequently obliged to form com- 
parisons between the several species and degrees of excellence, 
and estimating their proportion to each other. A man who has 
had no opportunity of comparing the diiferent kinds of beauty is 
indeed totally unqualified to pronounce an opinion with regard to 
any object presented to him. By comparison alone, we fix the 
epithets of praise or blame, and learn how to assign the due de- 
gree of each. The coarsest daubing contains a certain luster of 
colors, and exactness of imitation, which are so far beauties, and 
would affect the mind of a peasant or Indian with the highest 
admiration. The most vulgar ballads are not entirely destitute 
of harmony or nature ; and none but a person familiarized to 
superior beauties would pronounce their numbers harsh, or nar- 
ration uninteresting. A great inferiority of beauty gives pain to 
a person conversant in the highest excellence of the kind, and is, 
for that reason, pronounced a deformity ; as the most finished 
object with which we are acquainted is naturally supposed to 
have reached the pinnacle of perfection, and to be entitled to the 
highest applause. One accustomed to see and examine and 
weigh the several performances admired in different ages and na- 
tions can alone rate the merits of a work exhibited to his view, 
and assign its proper rank among the productions of genius. 

But, to enable a critic the more fully to execute this under- 
taking, he must preserve his mind free from all prejudice, and 
allow nothing to enter into his consideration but the very object 
which is submitted to his examination. We may observe, that 
every work of art, in order to produce its due effect on the mind, 
must be surveyed in a certain point of view, and can not be fully 
relished by persons whose situation, real or imaginary, is not 
conformable to that which is required by the performance. An 
orator addresses himself to a particular audience, and must have 
a regard to their particular genius, interests, opinions, passions, 
and prejudices; otherwise he hopes in vain to govern their resolu- 
tions, and inflame their affections. Should they even have enter- 
tained some prepossessions against him, however unreasonable, he 
must not overlook this disadvantage, but, before he enters upon 
the subject, must endeavor to conciliate their affection, and ac- 
quire their good graces. A critic of a different age or nation who 
should peruse this discourse must have all these circumstances in 



DAVID HUME. 449 

his eye, and must place himself in the same situation as the audi- 
ence, in order to form a true judgment of the oration. In like 
manner, when any work is addressed to the public, though I 
should have a friendship or enmity with the author, I must depart 
from this situation, and, considering myself as a man in general, 
forget, if possible, my individual being and my peculiar circum- 
stances. A person influenced by prejudice complies not with this 
condition, but obstinately maintains his natural position without 
placing himself in that point of view which the performance sup- 
poses. If the work be addressed to persons of a different age or 
nation, he makes no allowance for their peculiar views and preju- 
dices, but, full of the manners of his own age and country, rashly 
condemns what seemed admirable in the eyes of those for whom 
alone the discourse was calculated. If the work be executed for 
the public, he never sufficiently enlarges his comprehension, or 
forgets his interest as a friend or enemy, as a rival or commenta- 
tor. By this means, his sentiments are perverted ; nor have the 
same beauties and blemishes the same influence upon him as if 
he had imposed a proper violence on his imagination, and had 
forgotten himself for a moment. So far, his taste evidently de- 
parts from the true standard, and, of consequence, loses all credit 
and authority. 

It is well known, that, in all questions submitted to the under- 
standing, prejudice is destructive of sound judgment, and perverts 
all operations of the intellectual faculties : it is no less contrary 
to good taste ; nor has it less influence to corrupt our sentiment 
of beauty. It belongs to good sense to check its influence in both 
cases ; and in this respect, as well as in many others, reason, if 
not an essential part of taste, is at least requisite to the operations 
of this latter faculty. In all the nobler productions of genius, 
there is a mutual relation and correspondence of parts ; nor can 
either the beauties or blemishes be perceived by him whose 
thought is not capacious enough to comprehend all those parts, 
and compare them with each other, in order to perceive the con- 
sistence and uniformity of the whole. Every work of art has also 
a certain end or purpose for which it is calculated, and is to be 
deemed more or less perfect as it is more or less fitted to attain 
this end. The object of eloquence is to persuade ; of history, to 
instruct; of poetry, to please by means of the passions and the im- 
agination. These ends we must carry constantly in our view 
when we peruse any performance ; and we must be able to judge 
how far the means employed are adapted to their respective pur- 
poses. Besides, every kind of composition, even the most poeti- 
cal, is nothing but a chain of propositions and reasonings; not 
always, indeed, the justest and most exact, but still plausible and 
specious, however disguised by the coloring of the imagination. 
29 



450 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The persons introduced in tragedy and epic poetry must be rep- 
resented as reasoning and tli inking and concluding and acting 
suitably to tiieir character and circumstances : and, without judg- 
ment as well as taste and invention, a poet can never hope to 
succeed in so delicate an undertaking ; not to mention that the 
same excellence of faculties which contributes to the improvement 
of reason, the same clearness of conception, the same exactness of 
distinction, the same vivacity of apprehension, are essential to the 
operations of true taste, and are its infallible concomitants. It 
seldom or never happens that a man of sense who has experience 
in any art can not judge of its beauty; and it is no less rare to 
meet with a man who has a just taste without a sound under- 
standing. 

Thus, though the principles of taste be universal, and nearly, if 
not entirely, the same in all men, yet few are qualified to give 
judgment on any work of art, or establish their own sentiments 
as the standard of beauty. The organs of internal sensation are 
seldom so perfect as to allow the general principles their full play, 
and produce a feeling correspondent to those principles. They 
either labor under some defect, or are vitiated by some disorder, 
and by that means excite a sentiment whicli may be pronounced 
erroneous. Wheii the critic has no delicacy, he judges without 
any distinction, and is only affected by the grosser and more pal- 
pable qualities of the object : the finer touches pass unnoticed and 
disregarded. Where he is not aided by practice, his verdict is 
attended with confusion and hesitation. Where no comparison 
has been employed, the most frivolous beauties, such as rather 
merit the name of defects, are the object of his admiration. 
Where he lies under the influence of prejudice, all his natural 
sentiments are perverted. Where good sense is wanting, he is 
not qualified to discern the beauties of design and reasoning 
which are the highest and most excellent. Under some or other 
of these imperfections, the generality of men labor ; and hence a 
true judge in the finer arts is observed, even during the most pol- 
ished ages, to be so rare a character. Strong sense, united to deli- 
cate sentiment, improved by practice, perfected by comparison, 
and cleared of all prejudice, can alone entitle critics to this valua- 
ble character ; and the joint verdict of such, wherever they are to 
be found, is the true standard of taste and beauty. 

But where are such critics to be found ? By what marks are 
they to be known? How distinguish them from pretenders? 
These questions are embarrassing, and seem to throw us back 
into the same uncertainty from which, during the course of this 
essay, we have endeavored to extricate ourselves. 

But, if we consider the matter aright, these are questions of 
fact, not of sentiment. Whether any particular person be en- 



DAVID HUME. 451 

dowed with good sense and a delicate imagination, free from 
prejudice, may often be the subject of dispute, and be Hable to 
great discussion and inquiry ; but that such a character is vahia- 
ble and estimable will be agreed in by all mankind. Where these 
doubts occur, men can do no more than in other disputable ques- 
tions which are submitted to tlie understanding : they must pro- 
duce the best arguments that their invention suggests to them; 
they must acknowledge a true and decisive standard to exist 
somewhere, — to wit, real existence and matter of fact ; and they 
must have indulgence to such as differ from them in their appeals 
to this standard. It is sufficient for our present purpose if we 
have proved that the taste of all individuals is not upon an equal 
footing, and that some men in general, however difficult to be par- 
ticularly pitched upon, will be acknowledged by universal senti- 
ment to have a preference above others. 

But, in reality, the difficulty of finding, even in particulars, the 
standard of taste, is not so great as it is represented. Though in 
speculation we may readily allow a certain criterion in science, 
and deny it in sentiment, the matter is found, in practice, to be 
much more hard to ascertain in the former case than in the latter. 
Theories of abstract philosophy, systems of profound theology, have 
prevailed during one age : in a successive period, these have been 
universally exploded; their absurdity has been detected; other 
theories and systems have supplied their place, which again gave 
place to their successors ; and nothing has been experienced more 
liable to the revolutions of chance and fashion than these pre- 
tended decisions of science. The case is not the same with the 
beauties of eloquence and poetry. Just expressions of passion and 
nature are sure, after a little time, to gain public applause, which 
they maintain for ever. Aristotle and Plato and Epicurus and 
Descartes may successively yield to each other ; but Terence 
and Virgil maintain a universal, undisputed empire over the 
minds of men. The abstract philosophy of Cicero has lost its 
credit : the vehemence of his oratory is still the object of our ad- 
miration. Though men of delicate taste be rare, they are easily 
to be distinguished in society by the soundness of their under- 
standing and the superiority of their faculties above the rest of 
mankind. The ascendant which they acquire gives a prevalence 
to that lively approbation with which they receive any produc- 
tions of genius, and renders it generally predominant. Many 
mon, when left to themselves, have but a faint and dubious per- 
ception of beauty, who yet are capable of relishing any fine stroke 
which is pointed out to them. Every convert to the admiration 
of the real poet or orator is the cause of some new conversion. 
And, though prejudices may prevail for a time, they never unite 
in celebrating any rival to the true genius, but yield at last to the 



452 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

force and just sentiment. Thus, though a civilized nation may 
easily be mistaken in the choice of their admired philosopher, 
they never have been found long to err in their affection for a 
favorite epic or tragic author. But notwithstanding all our en- 
deavors to fix a standard of taste, and reconcile the discordant 
apprehensions of men, there still remain two sources of variation, 
which are not sufficient, indeed, to confound all the boundaries of 
beauty and deformity, but will often serve to produce a difference 
in the degrees of our approbation or blame. The one is the dif- 
ferent humors of particular men ; the other, the particular man- 
ners and opinions of our age and country. The general principles 
of taste are uniform in human nature : where men vary in their 
judgments, some defect or perversion in the faculties may com- 
monly be remarked, proceeding either from prejudice, from want 
of practice, or want of delicacy ; and there is just reason for ap- 
proving one taste, and condemning another. But where there is 
such a diversity in the internal frame or external situation as is 
entirely blameless on both sides, and leaves no room to give one 
the preference above the other, — in that case a certain degree of 
diversity in judgment is unavoidable, and we seek in vain for a 
standard by which we can reconcile the contrary sentiments. 



BENJAMIN" FRANKLIK 

1706-1790. 

Distinguished philosopher and statesman ; born in Boston, Mass. He has been 
called, in an age of great men, "the greatest diplomatist of the eighteenth century." 
" He never spoke a word too soon ; he never spoke a word too late; he never spoke 
a word too much; he never failed to speak the right word in the right place." 



THE WAY TO WEALTH. 

Courteous reader, I have heard that nothing gives an author 
so great pleasure as to find his works respectfully quoted by 
others. Judge, then, how much I must have been gratified by an 
incident I am going to relate to you. I stopped my horse lately 
where a great number of people were collected at an auction of 
merchants' goods. The hour of the sale not being come, they 
were conversing on the badness of the times ; and one of the 
company called to a plain, clean old man with white locks, 
" Pray, Father Abraham, what think you of the times ? Will 
not these heavy taxes quite ruin the country ? How shall we 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 463 

ever be able to pay them ? What would you advise us to ? " 
Father Abraham stood up, and replied, " If you would have my 
advice, I w^ll give it you in short ; for A ivord to the wise is 
enoicgh, as Poor E-ichard says." They joined in desiring him 
to speak his mind; and, gathering round him, he proceeded as 
follows : — 

"Friends," said he, "the taxes are indeed very heavy: and, if 
those laid on by the government were the only ones w'e had to 
pay, we might more easily discharge them ; but we have many 
others, and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed 
twice as much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, 
and four times as much by our folly ; and from these taxes the 
commissioners can not ease or deliver us by allowing an abate- 
ment. However, let us hearken to good advice, and something 
may be done for us. God helps them that help themselves, as Poor 
Kichard saj^s. 

" It would be thought a hard government that should tax its 
people one-tenth part of their time to be employed in its service ; 
but idleness taxes many of us much more. Sloth, by bringing 
on diseases, absolutely shortens life. Sloth, like rust, coiisumes 
faster than labor tvears j ivhile the used key is alivays bright, 
as Poor Richard says. But dost thou love life, then do not 
squander time ; for that is the stuff life is made of, as Poor 
Kichard says. How much more than is necessary do we spend in 
sleep! forgetting that The sleejping fox catches no poidtry, and that 
There ivill be sleeping enough 171 the grave, as Poor Eichard saj^s. 

"7/* time be of all things the most p)r&cious, ivasting time must 
he, as Poor Richard says, the greatest prodigality : since, as he 
elsewhere tells us. Lost time is never found again ; and what we 
call time enough always proves little enough. Let us, then, up 
and be doing, and doing to the purpose : so by diligence shall we 
do more with less perplexity. 

" But with our industry we must likewise be steady, settled, 
and careful, and oversee our own aifairs with our own eyes, 
and not trust too much to others; for Three removes are as 
bad as a fire. And again : Keep thy shop, and thy shop will keep 
thee. And again : If you ivoulcl have your busifiess done, go ; if 
not, send. 

" So much for industry, my friends, and att-ention to one's own 
business ; but to these we must add frugality if w^e would make 
our industry more certainly successful. A man may, if he knows 
not how to save as he gets, keep his nose all his life to the grind- 
stone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen makes a 
lean ivill. 

" Away, then, with your expensive follies, and you will not then 
have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and 
chargeable families. 



454 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" And further : What maintains one vice tuould hrinf) up ttvo 
children. You may think, ])erhaps, that a little tea, or a little 
punch now and then, diet a little more costly, clothes a little finer, 
and a little entertainment now and then, can be no great matter; 
but remember, Many a little makes a mickle. Beware of little 
expenses : A small leak will sink a great shijo, as Poor E-ichard 
says. And again : Who dainties love shall beggars prove ; and, 
moreover. Fools make feasts, and tvise Tnen eat them.. 

" Here you are all got together at this sale of fineries and 
knick-knacks. You call them goods / but, if you do not take care, 
they will prove evils to some of you. You expect they will be sold 
cheap ; and perhaps they may for less than they cost : but, if you 
have no occasion for them, they must be dear to you. Remember 
what Poor E-ichard says : Buy ivhat thou hast no need of, and 
ere long thou shall sell thy necessaries. And again : At a great 
pennyworth pause a while. He means that perhaps the cheap- 
ness is apparent only, and not real ; or the bargain, by straitening 
thee in thy business, may do thee more harm than good. For in 
another place he says. Many have been ndned hy buying good 
"pennyworths. Again : It is foolish to lay out money in a pur- 
chase of repentance ; and yet this folly is practiced every day at 
auctions for want of minding ' The Almanac' Many a one, for the 
sake of finery on the back, have gone with a hungry belly, and 
half starved their families. Silks and satins, scarlet and velvets, 
put out the kitchen-fire, as Poor Eichard says. 

" But what madness must it be to run in debt for these super- 
fluities ! We are offered by the terms of this sale six months' 
credit ; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, 
because we can not spare the ready money, and hope now to be 
fine without it. But, ah ! think what you do when you run in 
debt : you give to another power over your liberty. If you can 
not pay at the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor ; you 
will be in fear when you speak to him ; you will make poor, 
pitiful, sneaking excuses, and by degrees come to lose your ve- 
racity, and sink into base, downright lying ; for The second vice is 
lying, the first is runnifig in debt, as Poor Richard says. And 
again, to the same purpose : Lying rides upon debfs back ; where- 
as a free-born Englishman ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to 
see or speak to any man living. But poverty often deprives a 
man of all spirit and virtue. It is hard for an empty hag to 
stand upright. 

" What would you think of that prince, or of that government, 
who should issue an edict forbidding you to dress like a gentleman 
or gentlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude? Would 
you not say that you were free, have a right to dress as you please, 
and that such an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and 



BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. 455 

such a government tyrannical ? And yet you are about to put 
yourself under such tyranny when you run in debt for such dress. 
Your creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your 
liberty, or by confining you in jail, till you shall be able to pay 
him. When you have got your bargain, you may perhaps think 
little of payment ; but, as Poor E,ichard says, Creditors have 
better memories than debtors : creditors are a superstitious sect, 
great observers of set days and times. The day comes round 
before you are aware ; and the demand is made before you are pre- 
pared to satisfy it : or, if you bear your debt in mind, the term 
which at first seemed so long, will, as it lessens, appear extremely 
short. Time will seem to have added wings to his heels as well 
as his shoulders. Those have a short Lent %vho owe money to be 
paid at Easter. At present, perhaps you may think yourselves in 
thriving circumstances, and that you can bear a little extravagance 
without injury : but 

For age and loant save while you may ; 
No mornlatj sun lasts a whole day. 

Gain may be temporary and uncertain ; but ever, while you live, 
expense is constant and certain : and It is easier to build two 
chimneys than to keep one in fuel, as Poor Kichard says ; so 
Rather go to bed sitptperless than rise in debt. 

"This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom. But, after 
all, do not depend too much upon your own industry and frugality 
and prudence, though excellent things ; for they may all be 
blasted, without the blessing of Heaven : and, therefore, ask that 
blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present 
seem to want it, but comfort and help them. P-emember, Job 
suffered, and was afterwards prosperous." 

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. I resolved to be 
the better for it ; and, though I had at first determined to buy 
stuif for a new coat, I went away resolved to wear my old one a 
little longer. Peader, if thou wilt do the same, tliy profit w^ill be 
as great as mine. I am, as ever, thine to serve thee, 

PicHAED Saunders. 



A PARABLE AGAINST PERSECUTION.'^ 

1. And it came to pass, after these things, that Abraham sat in 
the door of his tent about the going-down of the sun. 

* The substance of this beautiful parable was not original with Franklin ; for Jeremy 
Taylor gives it as taken from the " Jews' Book," and it is traced back centuries farther. 
The true author is not known ; but it never attracted general attention, until, in the hands 
of Franklin, it assumed the scriptural style. Franklin wa'^ in the habit of amusing him- 
self by reading it to divines and others well versed in the Scriptures, and obtaining their 
opinions upon it, which were sometimes very diverting. 



456 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

2. And, behold, a man bowed with age came from the way of 
the wilderness, leaning on a staff. 

3. And Abraham arose and met him, and said unf o him, " Turn 
in, I pray thee, and wash thy feet, and tarry all night ; and thou 
shalt arise early on the morrow, and go on thy way." 

4. But the man said, " Nay ; for I will abide under this tree." 

5. And Abraham pressed him greatly : so he turned, and they 
went into the tent. And Abraham baked unleavened bread ; and 
they did eat. 

6. And, when Abraham saw that the man blessed not God, he 
said unto him, '^ Wherefore dost thou not worship the most high 
God, Creator of heaven and earth ? " 

7. And the man answered, and said, ^' I do not worship the 
God thou speakest of, neither do I call upon his name ; for I have 
made to myself a god which abideth alway in mine house, and 
provideth me with all things." 

8. And Abraham's zeal was kindled against the man ; and he 
arose, and fell upon him, and drove him forth with blows into 
the wilderness. 

9. And at midnight God called unto Abraham, saying, " Abra- 
ham, where is the stranger ? " 

10. And Abraham answered, and said, " Lord, he would not 
worship thee, neither would he call upon thy name : therefore 
have I driven him out from before m'y face into the wilderness." 

11. And God said, " Have I borne with him these hundred, 
ninety, and eight years, and nourished him and clothed him, not- 
withstanding his rebellion against me, and couldst not thou, that 
art thyself a sinner, bear with him one night ? " 

12. And Abraham said, " Let not the anger of the Lord wax 
hot against his servant. Lo, I have sinned ; lo, I have sinned : 
forgive me, I pray thee." 

13. And Abraham arose, and went forth into the wilderness, 
and sought diligently for the man, and found him, and returned 
with him to the tent ; and, when he had entreated him kindly, he 
sent him away on the morrow with gifts. 

14. And God spake again unto Abraham, saying, " For this thy 
sin shall thy seed be afflicted four hundred years in a strange land : 

15. " But for thy repentance will I deliver them ; and they 
shall come forth with power, and with gladness of heart, and with 
much substance." 



THE WHISTLE. 



When I was a child at seven years old, my friends on a 
holiday filled my little pocket with coppers. I went directly to a 
shop where they sold toys for children ; and, being charmed with 



BENJAMIN FEANKLIN. 457 

the sound of a luhistle that I met by the way in the hands of 
another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for one. I 
then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much 
pleased with my ivhistle, but disturbing all the family. My broth- 
ers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, 
told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. 
This put me in mind what good things I might have bought 
with the rest of ray money : and thej^ laughed at me so much 
for my folly, that I cried with vexation ; and the reflection gave 
me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure. 

This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression con- 
tinuing on my mind : so that often, when I was tempted to buy 
some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, DonH glv3 too much for 
the whistle ; and so I saved my money. 

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions 
of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too 
much for the whistle. 

When I saw any one too ambitious of court-favor, sacrificing 
his time in attendance at levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, 
and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself. This 
man gives too much for his luhistle. 

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing 
liimself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruin- 
ing them by that neglect. He pays, indeed, says I, too much for 
his ivhistle. 

If I knew a miser who gave up every kind of comfortable liv- 
ing, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of 
his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the 
sake of accumulating wealth. Poor man, says I, you do, indeed, 
pay too much for your ivhistle. 

When I meet a man of pleasure sacrificing every laudable im- 
provement of the mind or of his fortune to mere corporeal sensa- 
tions, Mista^ken man, says I, you are providing pain for yourself 
instead of pleasure : you, give too much for your whistle. 

If I see one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipages 
(all above his fortune), for which he contracts debts, and ends his 
career in prison, Alas ! says I, he has paid dear, very dear, for 
his whistle. 

When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an ill- 
natured brute of a husband. What a pity it is, says I, that 
she has paid so much for a whistle ! 

In short, I conceived that a great part of the miseries of man- 
kind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had 
made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for 
their whistles. 



458 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 



TURNING THE GRINDSTONE. 

Whept I was a little boy, I remember one cold winter's morn- 
ing I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. 
"My pretty boy/' said he, "has your father a grindstone?"—* 
" Yes, sir/' said I. " You are a fine little fellow/' said he : " will 
you let me grind my ax on it ? " Pleased with the compliment of 
" Fine little fellow ! " " Oh, yes, sir ! " I answered : " it is down in 
the shop." — "And will you, my man," said he, patting me on the 
head, " get me a little hot water ? " How could I refuse ? I ran, 
and soon brought a kettleful. " How old are you ? and what's 
your name ? " continued he, without waiting for a reply. " I am 
sure you are one of the finest lads that ever I have seen : will 
you just turn a few minutes for me ? " 

Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work ; and 
bitterly did I rue the day. It was a new ax ; and I toiled and 
tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school-bell rang, 
and I could not get away : my hands were blistered ; and the ax 
was not half ground. At length, however, it was sharpened ; and 
the man turned to me with, "Now, you little rascal, you've played 
truant : scud to the school, or you'll buy it ! " — " Alas ! " thought 
I, " it is hard enough to turn a grindstone this cold day ; but 
now to be called a little rascal is too much." 

It sank deep in my mind ; and often have I thought of it since. 
When I see a merchant over-polite to his customers, begging 
them to take a little brand}?", and throwing his goods on the 
counter, thinks I, " That man has an ax to grind." When I see 
a man flattering the people, making great professions of attach- 
ment to liberty, who is in private life a tj^rant, methinks, " Look 
out, good people ! that fellow would set you turning grindstones." 

When I see a man hoisted into office by party-spirit, without 
a single qualification to render him either respectable or useful, 
" Alas," methinks, " deluded people ! you are doomed for a season 
to turn the grindstone for a booby." 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

1728-1774. 

The kind-hearted, genial author of " The Vicar of Wakefield," " The Deserted 
Village," "The Traveler," and the two comedies, "The Good-natured Man" and 
"She Stoops to Conquer," "Histories of England, Greece, and Korae," and "The 
Earth and Animated Nature." Everybody loves Goldsmith and Irving. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 459 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain ! 
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain ; 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summer's lingering blooms delayed, — 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, -r- 
How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm ! — 
The sheltered cot ; the cultivated farm ; 
The never-failing brook ; the busy mill ; 
The decent church that topt the neighboring hill ; 
The hawthorn-bush, with seats beneath the shade 
For talking age and whispering lovers made. 
How often have I blessed the coming day 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old surveyed, 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round I 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired, — 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter tittered round the place ; 
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love ; 
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. 
These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, 
With sweet succession, taught even toil to please. 
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed ; 
These were thy charms, — but all these charms are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn ! 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn. 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain. 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day. 
But, choked with sedges, works its weary way. 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest. 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
Amidst thy desert-walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all ; 
And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall ; 
And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, 
Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 



460 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
Where wealth accumulates and men decay : 
Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, 
(A breath can make them, as a breath has made ;) 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs began, 
When every rood of ground maintained its man : 
For him light Labor spread her wholesome store, 
Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; 
His best companions, innocence and health ; 
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are altered : Trade's unfeeling train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain. 
Along the lawn where scattered hamlets rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose, 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that Plenty bade to bloom ; 
Those calm desires that asked but little room ; 
Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brightened all the green, — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore ; 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour ! 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here as I take my solitary rounds 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds. 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs, — and God has given my share, ^- 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose. 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill; 
Around my fire an evening group to draw. 
And tell of all I felt and all I saw : 
And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
Pants for the place from whence at first she flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return, and die at home at last. 

O blest .retirement, friend to life's decline. 
Retreat from cares, that never must be mine ! 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits a world where strong tempations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly ! 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 461 

For liim no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No sm-ly porter stands in guilty state 
To spurn imploring Famine from the gate : 
But on he moves to meet his latter end. 
Angels around betriending Virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay. 
While Resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last. 
His heaven commences ere the world be passed. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close, 
Up yonder hill the village murmur rose ! 
There as I passed with careless steps and slow, 
The mingling notes came softened from below : 
The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung. 
The sober herd that lowed to meet their young, 
The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 
The playful children just let loose from school, 
The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind, 
And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind, — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, 
And filled each pause the nightingale had made. 
But now the sounds of population fail ; 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale ; 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread ; 
For all the blooming flush of life is fled, — 
All but yon widowed, solitary thing 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring : 
She, wretched matron ! forced in age, for bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn, — 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, — 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose. 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear. 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place : 
Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power. 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour ; 
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train : 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. 
The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
Whose beard, descending, sAvept his aged breast ; 
The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud. 
Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ; 



462 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 
Sat by his fire, and talked the night away, 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done. 
Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe : 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride ; 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side. 
But in his duty, prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay. 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 

Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise ; 
And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace. 
His looks adorned the venerable place : 
Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway ; 
And fools who came to scoff" remained to pray. 
The service passed, around the pious man. 
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran : 
E'en children followed with endearing wile. 
And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed : 
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed. 
To them his heart, his love, his griefs, were given ; 
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
As some tall cliff" that lifts its awful form. 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way 
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, — 
There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule. 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view : 
I knew him well, and every truant knew. 
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee 
At all his jokes (for many a joke had he) ; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round. 
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. 
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 463 

The village all declared how much he knew : 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage ; 
And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill; 
For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still : 
While words of learned length and thundering sound 
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; 
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But passed is all his fame ; the very spot 
"Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. 
Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, 
Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 
Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired; 
Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired ; 
Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, 
And news much older than their ale went round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place, — 
The white-washed wall ; the nicely-sanded floor ; 
The varnished clock that clicked behind the door ; 
The chest, contrived a double debt to pay, — 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use ; 
The twelve good rules ; the royal game of goose ; 
The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, 
With aspen-boughs and flowers and fennel gay ; 
While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row. 

Vain, transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion fi^om its fall ? 
Obscure it sinks ; nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's hear^ : 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad, shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear ; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to he pressed, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Yes ! let the rich deride, the proud disdain. 
These simple blessings of the lowly train : 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys where Nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway ; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 



464 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, — 
In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain ; 
And, even while Fashion's brightest arts decoy, 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy. 

Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen who survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay I 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, 
And shouting Folly hails them from her shore ; 
Hoards even beyond the miser's wish abound ; 
And rich men flock from all the world around. 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a name, 
That leaves our useful products still the same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied, — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds ; 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds : 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary spots are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies 
For all the luxuries the world supplies ; 
While thus the land, adorned for pleasure, all, 
In barren splendor, feebly waits the fall. 

As some fair female, unadorned and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her reign. 
Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies. 
Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes ; 
But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail. 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed ; 
In Nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise. 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by faniine, from the smiling land • 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms, — a garden and a gi^ave. 

Where, then, ah ! where, shall Poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 
He drives his flocks to pick the scanty blade. 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide ; 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 

K to the city sped, what waits him there ? 
To see profusion that he must not share ; 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 465 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 

To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 

To see each joy the sons of Pleasure know 

Extorted from his fellow-creatures' woe. 

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade ; 

Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way ; 

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign, 

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train ; 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square. 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy; 

Sure these denote one universal joy ! 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah ! turn thine eyes 

Where the poor, houseless, shivering female lies. 

She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed, 

Has wept at tales of innocence distressed : 

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn. 

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn ; 

Now lost to all, her friends, her virtue, fled. 

Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, 

And pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower, 

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 

When idly first, ambitious of the town, 

She left her wheej, and robes of country brown. 

Do thine, sweet Auburn ! thine, the loveliest train, — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 

Ah, no ! to distant climes, a dreary scene. 
Where half the convex world intrudes between, 
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps they go. 
Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. 
Far different there from all that charmed before, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore, — 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day ; 
Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling ; 
Tliose poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death around ; 
Where at each step the stranger fears to wake 
Tlie rattling terrors of the vengeful snake ; 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than they ; 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 
Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies. 
Far different these from every former scene, — 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
Tlie breezy covert of the warbling grove. 
That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. 
30 



406 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Good Heaven ! what sorrows gloomed that parting day 
That called them from then* native walks away, 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, 
And took a long farewell, and wished in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western main, 
And, shuddering still to face the distant deep, 
Returned and wept, and still returned to weep ! 
The good old sire tine first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' woe ; 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave. 
He only wished for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears. 
The fond companion of his helpless years. 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms. 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes. 
And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose. 
And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear. 
And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear ; 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief 

O Luxury, thou curst by Heaven's decree ! 
How ill exchanged are things like these for thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy. 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown. 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught, more large and large they grow, 
A bloated mass of rank, unwieldy woe ; 
Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, 
Down, down, they sink, and spread a ruin round. 

E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done ; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, 
That, idly waiting, flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band. 
Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness, are there. 
And piety with wishes placed above. 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid ! 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame. 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame ; 
Dear, charming nymph ! neglected and decried. 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so ; 



THOMAS GRAY. 467 

Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel ; 
Thou nurse of every virtue, — fare thee well I 
Farewell ! and, oh ! where'er thy voice be tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pauibamarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
Or Winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time. 
Redress the rigors of the inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted Truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him that states of native strength possessed, 
Though very poor, may still be very blessed ; 
That Trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, 
As Ocean sweeps the labored mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can Time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THOMAS GRAY. 

1716-1771. 

Distinguished as poet and scholar. " Ode to Spring," " The Bard," " The Prog- 
ress of Poesy," and " Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His letters are 
noted for their clear, elegant, and picturesque style. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD* 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day ; * 
The lowing herd wind_ slowly o'er the lea ; S 

The plowman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower. 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

* The reasons of that universal approbation with which this Elegy has been received 
maybe learned from the comprehensive encomium of Dr. Johnson: "It abounds with 
images which find a mirror in everj'^ soul, and with sentiments to which every bosom 
returns an echo." 

" Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he stands, I am not sure that ha 
would not stand higher: it is the coruer-stone of his glory." — Lord Byron. 



468 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return. 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : 
How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power, 

And all that Beauty, all that Wealth, e'er gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour : 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise 

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust ? 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Bich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll ; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage. 
And froze the genial cm-rent of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



THOMAS GRAY. 469 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest ; 

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far fi^om the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 

Their sober wishes never learned to stray : 
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of theu' way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect. 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, . 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of* a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies ; 

Some jdIous drops the closing eye requires : 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries ; 

E'en in om' ashes live their wonted fires. 



For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led. 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 



470 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

" There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One morn I missed him on the customed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : 

Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he : 

" The next, with dirges due in sad array. 

Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne : 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown : 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth; 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send : 
He gave to misery (all he had) a tear ; 

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, — 

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) — 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



OTHER DISTINGinSHED WRITERS OF 
POETRY AND PROSE. 

William Shenstone. — 1714-1763. " Schoolmistress " and " Pastoral Ballad." 
William Collins. — 1721-1759. *' Oriental Eclogues," "The Passions," odes 
to " Liberty " and " Evening," and other fine Ip'ics. 

Mark Akenside. — 1721-1770. " Pleasures of Imagination." 

Thomas Wa'rton. — 1728-1790. "The Pleasui-es of Melancholy," and other 
poems; " History of English Poetry." 

Joseph Warton. — 1722-1800. Brother of Thomas, and an inferior poet. 

John HoRNE. — 1722-1808. Dramatist. " Douglas," and other pieces. 



OTHER DISTINGUISHED WRITERS. 471 

William Mason. — 1725-1797. " The English Garden," and " Life and Letters 
of Gray." 

Thomas Percy. — 172S -1811. Collected " Reliques of English Poetry." 

Erasmus Darwin. — 1731-1802. "The Botanic Garden," a poem. 

William Falconer. — 1732-1769. "The Shipwreck;" and was himself ship- 
wrecked on "The Aurora." 

James Beattie. — 1735-1803. " The Minstrel," and other poems. 

James Macphekson. — 1738-1796. " Fingal," " Temora," and political essays. 

Charles Churchill. — 1731-1764. " The Rosciad," " Night," " The Prophecy 
of Famine," and other works. 

Thomas Chatterton. — 1752-1770. "Poems of Rowley," a priest of the fif- 
teenth century. 

Philip Doddridge. — 1702-1751. " Family Expositor," and other religious 
works. 

John Wesley. — 1703-1791. The most eminent of the founders of Methodism. 
" Journal " and " Hymns." 

Thomas Reid. — 1710-1796. Metaphysician. " Inquiry into the Human Mind," 
and "Essays on the Intellectual and Active Powers of Man." 

Laurence Sterne. — 1713-1768. " Tristram Shandy " and " The Sentimental 
Journey." Uncle Toby, Widow Wadman, Corporal Trinii, and Dr. Slop, are imper- 
ishable"^ characters. 

David Garrick. — 1716-1779. The famous actor. " The Ljdng Valet," " The 
Miss in her Teens," and other plays. 

Horace Walpole. — 1717-1791. " Castle of Otranto," and lively " Letters and 
Memoirs " of the time. 

Hugh Blair. — 1718-1800. " Sermons," and well-known " Rhetorical Lec- 
tures." 

Gilbert White. — 1720-1793. " The Natural History of Selborne; " an enter- 
taining book. 

Samuel Foote. — 1721-1777. Celebrated actor. "The Minor," "The Mayor 
of Garratt," and many others. 

Sir William Blackstone. — 1723-1780. " Commentaries on the Laws of Eng- 
land." 

Adam Smith. — 1723 -1790. " The Wealth of Nations," and "The Theory of 
Moral Sentiments." 

Adam Ferguson. — 1724-1816. "History of Civil Society," and "History of 
the Roman Republic." 

James BosWell. — 1740-1795. " Life of Samuel Johnson ; " a model biography. 

William Paley. — 1743-1805. "Evidences of Christianity," "Natural The- 
olog}''," and other religious works. 



472 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ALEXAISTDER POPE. 

1688-1744. 

The great didactic poet of the language, called " the prince of the artificial 
school of English poetry." His most celebrated productions are " The Rape of the 
Lock," " The Dunciad," "Essay on Criticism," and "Essay on Man." Translated 
the "Iliad" and "Odyssey." 



ESSAY ON MAN. 

EPISTLE I. 

Awake, my St. Jolm ! leave all meaner things 
To low ambition and the pride of kings. 
Let us (since lif§ can little more supply 
Than just to look about us and to die) 
Expatiate free o'er all this scene of man, — 
A mighty maze, but not without a plan ; 
A wild where weeds and flowers promiscuous shoot, 
Or garden tempting with forbidden fruit : 
Together let us beat this ample field, 
Try what the open, what the covert, yield; 
The latent tracts, the giddy hights, explore 
Of all who blindly creep, or sightless soar ; 
Eye Nature's walks, shoot folly as it flies, 
And catch the manners living as they rise ; 
Laugh where we must, be candid where we can, 
But vindicate the ways of God to man. 

I. Say first, of God above, or man below, 
"What can we reason but from what we know ? 
Of man, what see we but his station here, 
From which to reason, or to which refer ? 
Through worlds unnumbered, though the God be known, 
'Tis ours to trace him only in our own. 
He who through vast immensity can pierce, 
See worlds on worlds compose one universe. 
Observe how system into system runs, 
What other planets circle other suns, 
What varied being peoples every star, 
May tell why Heaven has made us as we are : 
But of this frame, the bearings and the ties, 
The strong connections, nice dependencies. 
Gradations just, has thy pervading soul 
Looked through ? or can a part contain the whole ? 

Is the great chain, that draws all to agree. 
And drawn supports, upheld by God, or thee ? 

il. Presumptuous man ! the reason wouldst thou find 
Why formed so weak, so little, and so bhnd ? 



ALEXANDER POPE. 473 

First, if tliou canst, the harder reason guess, — 
Why formed no weaker, blinder, and no less ; 
Ask of thy mother-earth why oaks were made 
Taller or weaker than the weeds they shade ; 
Or ask of yonder argent fields above 
Why Jove's satellites are less than Jove. 

Of systems possible, if 'tis confest 
That Wisdom Infinite must form the best, 
Where all must fall, or not coherent be, 
And all that rises rise in due degree, 
Then, in the scale of reasoning life, 'tis plain 
There must be somewhere such a rank as man ; 
And all the question (wrangle e'er so long) 
Is only this. If God has placed him wrong ? 
Respecting man, whatever wrong we call 
May, must be, right, as relative to all. 
In human works, though labored on with pain, 
A thousand movements scarce one purpose gain : 
In God's, one single can its end produce, 
Yet serves to second, too, some other use. 
So man, who here seems principal alone. 
Perhaps acts second to some sphere unknown, 
Touches some wheel, or verges to some goal ; 
'Tis but a part we see, and not a whole. 

When the proud steed shall know why man restrains 
His fiery course, or drives him o'er the plains ; 
When the dull ox, why now he breaks the clod. 
Is now a victim, and now Egypt's god, — 
Then shall man's pride and dullness comprehend 
His actions', passions', being's, use and end ; 
Why doing, suffering, checked, impelled ; and why 
This hour a slave, the next a deity. 

Then say not man's imperfect. Heaven in fault : 
Say, rather, man's as perfect as he ought; 
His knowledge measured to his state and place ; 
His time a moment, and a point his space. 
If to be perfect in a certain sphere. 
What matter soon or late, or here or there ? 
The blest to-day is as completely so 
As who began a thousand years ago. 

in. Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate, 
All but the page prescribed, — their present state ; 
From brutes what men, fi^om men what spirits, know ; 
Or who could suffer being here below ? 
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, 
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? 
Pleased to the last, he crops the floAvery food, 
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. 
Oh blindness to the future ! kindly given, 
That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven, 
Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 
A hero perish, or a sparrow fall. 



474 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. 

Atoms or systems into ruin hurled, 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

Hope humbly, then; with trembling pinions soar; 
Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore. 
What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, 
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
Hope springs eternal in the human breast : 
Man never is, but always to be, blest. 
The soul, uneasy, and confined from home, 
Kests and expatiates in a life to come. 

Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind 
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind I 
His soul proud science never taught to stray 
Far as the solar walk or milky-way ; 
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, 
Behind the cloud-topt hill, a humbler heaven, — 
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
Some happier island in the watery waste. 
Where slaves once more their native land behold. 
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold : 
To be contents his natural desire ; 
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, 
His faithful dog shall bear him company. 

IV. Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense 
Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; 

Call imperfection what thou fanciest such ; 
Say here He gives too little, there too much ; 
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust ; 
Yet say, if man's unhappy, God's unjust : 
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care, 
Alone made perfect here, immortal there. 
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, 
Rejudge his justice ; be the god of God ! 

In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies : 
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes : 
Men would be angels ; angels would be gods. 
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell. 
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel ; 
And who but wishes to invert the laws 
Of order sins against the Eternal Cause. 

V. Ask for what end the heavenly bodies shine. 
Earth for whose use. Pride answers, " 'Tis for mine ; 
For me kind Nature wakes her genial power, 
Suckles each herb, and spreads out every flower ; 
Annual for me the grape, the rose, renew 

The juice nectareous and the balmy dew ; 
For me the mine a thousand treasures brings ; 
For me health gushes from a thousand springs ; 
Seas roll to waft me, suns to light me rise ; 
My footstool earth, my canopy the skies." 



ALEXANDER POPE. 475 

But errs not Nature from this gracious end, 
From burning suns when livid deaths descend, 
When earthquakes swallow, or when tempests sweep 
Towns to one grave, whole nations to the deep ? 
" No," 'tis replied : " the first Almighty Cause 
Acts not by partial, but by general laws : 
The exceptions few ; some change since all begun : 
And what created perfect ? " Why, then, man ? 
If the great end be human happiness, 
Then Nature deviates ; and can man do less ? 
As much that end a constant com-se requires 
Of showers and sunshine as of man's desires ; 
As much eternal springs and cloudless skies. 
As men for ever temperate, calm, and wise. 
If plagues or earthquakes break not Heaven's design, 
Why, then, a Borgia or a Catiline ? 
Who knows but He whose hand the lightning forms, 
Who heaves old ocean, and who wings the storms. 
Pours fierce ambition in a Cesar's mind, 
Or turns young Amnion loose to scourge mankind ? 
From pride, from pride, our very reasoning springs ; 
Account for moral as for natural things : 
Why charge we Heaven in those, in these acquit ? 
In both, to reason right, is to submit. 

Better for us, perhaps, it might appear, 
Were there all harmony, all virtue here ; 
That never air nor ocean felt the wind ; 
That never passion discomposed the mind : 
But all subsists by elemental strife ; 
And passions are the elements of life. 
The general order, since the world began, 
Is kept in Nature, and is kept in man. 

VI. What would this man ? Now upward will he soar. 
And, little less than angel, would be more ? 
Now looking downward, just as grieved, appears 
To want the strength of bulls, the fur of bears. 
Made for his use all creatures, if he call. 
Say what their use, had he the powers of all ? 
Nature to these, without f)rofusion, kind. 
The proper organs, proper powers, assigned ; 
Each seeming want compensated, of course, — 
Here with degrees of swiftness, there of force ; 
All in exact proportion to the state ; 
Nothing to add, and nothing to abate. 
Each beast, each insect, happy in its own. 
Is Heaven unkind to man, and man alone ? 
Shall he alone, whom rational we call. 
Be pleased with nothing if not blessed with all ? 
The bliss of man (could pride that blessing find) 
Is not to act or think beyond mankind ; 
No powers of body or of soul to share 
But what his nature and his state can bear. 



476 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Why lias not man a microscopic eye ? 

For this plain reason : man is not a fly. 

Say what the use, were finer optics given, 

To inspect a mite, not comprehend the heaven? 

Or touch, if tremblingly alive all o'er, 

To smart and agonize at every pore ? 

Or, quick effluvia darting through the brain, 

Die of a rose in aromatic pain ? 

If Nature thundered in his opening ears. 

And stunned him with the music of the spheres. 

How would he wish that Heaven had left him still 

The whispering zephyr and the purling rill ! 

Who finds not Providence all good and wise, 

Alike in what it gives and what denies ? 

Vn. Far as creation's ample range extends, * 
The scale of sensual, mental powers ascends : 
Mark how it mounts to man's imperial race. 
From the green myriads in the peopled gi'ass ! 
What modes of sight betwixt each wide extreme ! — 
The mole's dim curtain and the lynx's beam ; 
Of smell, the headlong lioness between, 
And hound sagacious on the tainted green ; 
Of hearing, from the life that fills the flood 
To that which warbles through the vernal wood. 
The spider's touch how exquisitely fine ! 
Feels at each thread, and lives along the line : 
In the nice bee, what sense, so subtly true. 
From poisonous herbs extracts the healing dew I 
How instinct varies in the groveling swine, 
Compared, half-reasoning elephant, with thine 1 
'Twixt that and reason what a nice barrier ! 
For ever separate, yet for ever near ! 
Remembrance and reflection how allied ! 
What thin partitions sense from thought divide ! 
And middle natures — how they long to join, 
Yet never pass the insuperable line ! 
Without this just gradation could they be 
Subjected, these to those, or all to thee ? 
The powers of all subdued by thee alone. 
Is not thy reason all these powers in one ? 

VIII. See through this air, this ocean, and this earth. 
All matter quick, and bursting into birth ! 
Above, how high progressive life may go ! 
Around, how wide ! how deep extend below ! 
Vast chain of being, Avhich from God began ! — 
Natures ethereal, human, angel, man. 
Beast, bird, fish, insect, what no eye can see. 
No glass can reach ; fi'om infinite to thee, 
From thee to nothing. On superior powers 
Were we to press, inferior might on ours ; 
Or in the full creation leave a void, 
Where, one step broken, the great scale's destroyed : 



ALEXANDER POPE. 477 

From Nature's chain whatever link you strike, 
Tenth, or ten thousandth, breaks the chain aUke. 

And, if each system in gradation roll 
Alike essential to the amazing whole, 
The least confusion but in one, not all 
That system only, but the whole, must fall. 
Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly, 
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky ; 
Let ruling angels from their spheres be hurled, 
Being on being wrecked, and Avorld on world, — 
Heaven's whole foundations to their center nod, 
And Nature trembles to the throne of God. 
All this dread order break ? — For whom ? for thee ? 
Vile worm ! O madness ! pride ! imj)iety ! 

IX. \Vliat if the foot, ordained the dust to tread, 
Or hand to toil, aspired to be the head ? 

AVhat if the head, the eye, or ear, repined 
To serve mere engines to the ruling mind ? 
Just as absurd for any part to claim 
To be another in this general frame ; 
Just as absurd to mourn the tasks or pains 
The great directing Mind of all ordains. 

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul : 
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same, 
Great in the earth as in the ethereal fi-ame, 
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze. 
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees, 
Lives through all life, extends through all extent, 
Spreads undivided, operates unspent, 
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part, — 
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart ; 
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns, 
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns : 
To him no high, no low, no great, no small; 
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all. 

X. Cease, then, nor order imperfection name : 
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame. 
Know thy own point : This kind, this due degree, 
Of blindness, weakness. Heaven bestows on thee. 
Submit. In this or any other sphere 

Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear ; 

Safe in the hand of one disposing Power, 

Or in the natal or the mortal hour. 

All nature is but art, unknown to thee ; 

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see ; 

All discord, harmony not understood; 

All partial evil, universal good. 

And spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, 

One truth is clear : Whatever is, is right. 



478 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



EPISTLE II. 

I. Know then thyself; presume not God to scan I 
The proper study of mankind is man. 
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state, 
A being darkly wise and rudely great ; 
With too much knowledge for the skeptic's side, 
With too much weakness for the stoic's pride. 
He hangs between ; in doubt to act or rest ; 
In doubt to deem himself a god or beast ; 
In doubt his mind or body to prefer, 
Born but to die, and reasoning but to err ; 
Alike in ignorance, his reason such, 
Whether he thinks too little or too much ; 
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused. 
Still by himself abused or disabused ; 
Created half to rise, and half to fall ; 
Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all ; 
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled ; 
The glory, jest, and riddle of the world ! 

Go, wondrous creature ! mount where Science guides^ 
Go measure earth, weigh air, and state the tides ; 
Instruct the planets in what orbs to run ; 
Correct old Time, and regulate the sun ; 
Go soar with Plato to the empyreal sphere, 
To the first good, first perfect, and first fair ; 
Or tread the mazy round his followers trod, 
And quitting sense call imitating God, 
As Eastern priests in giddy circles run, 
And turn their heads to imitate the sun ; 
Go, teach Eternal Wisdom how to rule ; 
Then drop into thyself, and be a fool ! 

Superior beings, when of late they saw 
A mortal man unfold all Nature's law, 
Admired such wisdom in an earthly shape, 
And showed a Newton as we show an ape. 

Could he, whose rules the rapid comet bind. 
Describe or fix one movement of his mind, 
Who saw its fires here rise and there descend, . 
Explain his own beginning or his end ? 
Alas, what wonder ! man's superior part 
Unchecked may rise, and climb from art to art ; 
But, when his own great work is but begun. 
What reason weaves, by passion is undone. 

Trace Science, then, with Modesty thy guide ; 
First strip off all her equipage of pride ; 
Deduct what is but vanity or dress, 
Or learning's luxury, or idleness. 
Or tricks to show the stretch of human brain, — 
Mere curious pleasure, or ingenious pain ; 
Expunge the whole, or lop the excrescent parts 
Of all our vices have created arts ; 



ALEXANDER POPE. 479 

Then see how little the remaining sum, , 

Which served the past, and must the times to come I 

II. Two principles in human nature reign, — 
Self-love to urge, and reason to restrain. 

Nor this a good, nor that a bad, we call ; 
(Each works its end, — to move or govern all ;) 
And to their proper operation still 
Ascribe all good ; to their improper, ill. 
Self-love, the spring of motion, acts the soul : 
Reason's comparing balance rules the whole. 
Man, but for that, no action could attend ; 
And, but for this, were active to no end : 
Fixed like a plant on his peculiar spot. 
To draw nutrition, propagate, and rot ; 
Or, meteor-like, flame lawless through the void, 
Destroying others, by himself destroyed. 
Most strength the moving principle requires; 
Active its task, it prompts, impels, inspires. 
Sedate and quiet the comparing lies. 
Formed but to check, deliberate, and advise. 
Self-love still stronger as its object's nigh ; 
Reason's at distance, and in prospect, lie : 
That sees immediate good by present sense ; 
Reason, the future and the consequence. 
Thicker than arguments temptations throng ; 
At best more watchful this, but that more strong. 
The action of the stronger to suspend, 
Reason still use, to reason still attend. 
Attention, habit and experience gains : 
Each strengthens reason, and self-love restrains. 
Let subtle schoolmen teach these friends to fight, 
(More studious to divide than to unite,) 
And grace and virtue, sense and reason, split 
With all the rash dexterity of wit. 
Wits, just like fools, at war about a name, 
Have full as oft no meaning, or the same. 
Self-love and reason to one end aspii^e, — 
Pain their aversion, pleasure their desire : 
But greedy that, its object would devour ; 
This taste the honey, and not wound the flower : 
Pleasure, or wrong or rightly understood, 
Our greatest evil or our greatest good. 

III. Modes of self-love the passions we may call : 
'Tis real good, or seeming, moves them all. 

But since not every good we can divide. 
And Reason bids us for our own provide, 
Passions, though selfish, if their means be fair, 
List under Reason, and deserve her care : 
Those that, imparted, court a nobler aim. 
Exalt their kind, and take some virtue's name. 

In lazy apathy let stoics boast 
Their virtue fixed ; 'tis fixed as in a frost, 



480 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Contracted all, retiring to the breast : 
But strength of mind is exercise, not rest. 
The rising tempest puts in act the soul : 
Parts it may ravage, but preserves the whole. 
On Life's vast ocean diversely we sail, 
Reason the chart, but Passion is the gale. 
Nor God alone in the still calm we find : 
He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind. 

Passions, like elements, though born to fight, 
Yet mixed and softened, in his w»rk unite : 
These 'tis enough to temper and employ ; 
But what composes man, can man destroy? 
Suffice that Reason keep to Nature's road, 
Subject, compound them, follow her and God. 

Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure's smiling train ; 
Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain, — 
These, mixed with art, and to due bounds confined, 
Make and maintain the balance of the mind : 
The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife 
Gives all the strength and color of our life. 

Pleasures are ever in our hands and eyes ; 
And, when in act they cease, in prospect rise : 
Present to grasp, and future still to find. 
The whole employ of body and of mind. 
All spread their charms, but charm not all alike. 
On different senses, different objects strike : 
Hence different passions more or less inflame, 
As strong or weak, the organs of the frame ; 
And hence one master-passion in the breast, 
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. 

As man, perhaps, the moment of his breath, 
Receives the lurking principle of death ; 
The young disease, which must subdue at length, 
Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength : 
So, cast and mingled with his very frame, 
The mind's disease, its ruling passion came : 
Each vital humor which should feed the whole 
Soon flows to this in body and in soul : 
Whatever warms the heart or fills the head 
As the mind opens, and its functions spread. 
Imagination plies her dangerous art. 
And pours it all upon the peccant part. 

Nature its mother, habit is its nurse ; 
Wit, spirit, faculties, but make it worse : 
Reason itself but gives it edge and power, 
As heaven's blest beam turns vinegar more sour. 
We wretched subjects, though no laAvful sway. 
In this weak queen some favorite still obey : 
Ah ! if she lend not arms as well as rules, 
What can she more than tell us we are fools; 
Teach us to mourn our nature, not to mend ; 
A sharp accuser, but a helpless friend ; 



ALEXANDER POPE. 431 

Or from a judge turn pleader, to persuade 
The choice we make, or justify it made ? 
Proud of an easy conquest all along, 
She but removes weak passions for the strong : 
So, when small humors gather to a gout. 
The doctor fancies he has driven them out. 

Yes, Nature's road must ever be preferred : 
Reason is hdre no guide, but still a guard. 
'Tis hers to rectify, not overthrow. 
And treat this passion more as friend than foe : 
A mightier power the strong direction sends, 
And several men impels to several ends : 
Like varying winds, by other passions tost, 
This drives them constant to a certain coast. 
Let power or knowledge, gold or glory, please, 
Or (oft more strong than all) the love of ease, 
Through life 'tis followed, e'en at life's expense. 
The merchant's toil, the sage's indolence, 
The monk's humility, the hero's pride, — 
All, all, alike, find Reason on their side. 

The Eternal Art, educing good from ill. 
Grafts on this passion our best principle : 
'Tis thus the mercury of man is fixed ; 
Strong grows the virtue with his nature mixed j 
The dross cements what else were too refined ; 
And, in one interest, body acts with mind. 

As fruits, ungrateful to the planter's care, 
Oa savage stocks inserted learn to bear; 
The surest virtues thus from passions shoot. 
Wild Nature's vigor working at the root. 
What crops of wit and honesty appear 
From spleen, from obstinacy, hate, or fear ! 
See anger, zeal and fortitude supply; 
Even avarice, prudence ; sloth, philosophy ; 
Lust, through some certain strainers well refined, 
Is gentle love, and charms all womankind ; 
Envy, to which the ignoble mind's a slave. 
Is emulation in the learned or brave : 
Nor virtue, male or female, can we name. 
Bat what will grow on pride, or grow on shame. 

Thus Nature gives us (let it check our pride) 
The virtue nearest to our vice allied : 
Reason the bias turns to good from ill, 
And Nero reigns a Titns if he will. 
The fiery soul abhorred in Catiline, 
In Duicius charms, in Curtius is divine : 
The same ambition can destroy or save, 
And makes a patriot as it makes a knave. 

IV. This lin;ht and darkness in our chaos joined. 
What shall divide? The God within the mind. 
Extremes in Nature equal ends produce : 
In man they join to some mysterious use ; 
SI 



482 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

Tliougli eaeli by turns the otlier's bounds invade, 
As, in some well-wrought picture, light and shade; 
And ol't so mixed, the difference is too nice 
Where ends the virtue, or begins the vice. 
Fools ! who from hence into the notion fall 
That vice and virtue there is none at all. 
If white and black blend, soften, and unite 
A thousand ways, is there no black or white ? 
Ask your own heart, and nothing is so plain : 
*Tis to mistake them costs the time and pain. 

V. Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, 
As, to be hated, needs but to be seen ; 

Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, 

We first endure, then pity, then embrace. 

But where the extreme of vice, was ne'er agreed. 

Ask where's the North ? At York, 'tis on tlie Tweed ; 

In Scotland, at the Orcades ; and there. 

At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where : 

No creature owns it in the first degree. 

But thinks his neighbor farther gone than he, — 

E'en those who dwell beneath its very zone. 

Or never feel the rage, or never own. 

What happier natures shrink at with affright 

The hard inhabitant contends is right. 

VI. Virtuous and vicious every man must be; 
Few in the extreme, but all in the degree : 

The rogue and fool by fits is fair and wise ; 
And e'en the best, by fits, what they despise. 
'Tis but by parts we follow good or ill ; 
For, vice or virtue, self directs it still. 
Each individual seeks a several goal ; 

VII. But Heaven's great vieAv is one, and that the whole. 
That counter-works each folly and caprice ; 

That disappoints the effects of every vice ; 
That happy frailties to all ranks applied, — 
Shame to the virgin, to the matron pride, 
Fear to the statesman, rashness to the chief, 
To kings presumption, and to crowds belief; 
That virtue's ends from vanity can raise, 
Which seeks no interest, no reward but praise, 
And build on wants, and on defects of mind. 
The joy, the peace, the glory, of mankind. 

Heaven, forming each on other to depend, 
(A master*, or a servant, or a friend,) 
Bids each on other for assistance call, 
Till one man's weakness grows the strength of all. 
Wants, frailties, passions, closer still ally 
The common interest, or endear the tie. 
To these we owe true friendship, love sincere, 
Each home-felt joy that life inherits here: 
Yet from the same we learn, in its decline, 
Those joys, those loves, those interests, to resign ; 



J0KATHAI5- SWIFT. 483 

Taught half by reason, half by mere decay, 
To welcome death, and calmly pass away. 

Whate'er the passion, knowledge, fame, or pelf, 
Not one will change his neighbor with himself. 
The learned is happy Nature to explore ; 
The fool is happy that he knows no more ; 
The rich is happy in the plenty given ; 
The poor contents him with the care of Heaven. 
See the blind beggar dance, the cripple sing, 
The sot a hero, lunatic a king, 
The starving chemist in his golden views 
Supremely blest, the poet in his Muse. 

See some strange comfort every state attend, 
And pride bestowed on all, a common friend : 
See some fit passion every age supply ; 
Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die. 

Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law, 
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw ! 
Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight, 
A little louder, but as empty quite ! 
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage ; 
And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age : 
Pleased with this bauble still, as that before ; 
Till, tired, he sleeps, and Life's poor play is o'er. 
Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays 
Those painted clouds that beautify our days : 
Each want of happiness by hope supplied, 
And each vacuity of sense by pride : 
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy ; 
In Folly's cup still laughs the bubble, Joy ; 
One prospect lost, another still we gain ; 
And not a vanity is given in vain ; 
E'en mean self-love becomes, by force divine, 
The scale to measure others* wants by thine. 
See ! and confess, one comfort still must rise : 
'Tis this, — though man's a fool, yet God is wise. 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 

1667-1745. 

Aiithor of " Tale of a Tub," " Gulliver's Travel's," " The Drapier Letters," and 
many other minor works of prose and poetry. With almost infinite scorn and con- 
tempt for the pretentious claims of king, court, and people, the assumptions of the 
would-be great and learned, he towers, compared with other writers, a Brobding- 
nag of bitter irony, fierce sarcasm, and savage wit, among harmless Liliputians. 



484 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



GULLIVER'S TRAVELS TO BROBDINGNAG. 

The frequent labors I underwent every day made in a few weeks 
a very considerable change in my health. The more my master 
got by me, the more insatiable he grew. I had quite lost my 
stomach, and was quite reduced to a skeleton. The farmer observ- 
ing it, and concluding I must soon die, resolved to make as good 
a hand of me as he could. While he was thus reasoning and re- 
solving with himself, a sardral, or gentleman usher, came from 
court, commanding my master to carry me immediately thither for 
the diversion of the queen and her ladies. Some of the latter had 
already been to see me, and reported strange things of my beauty, 
behavior, and good sense. Her Majesty, and those who attended 
her, were beyond measure delighted with my demeanor. I fell on 
my knees, and begged the honor of kissing her imperial foot ; but 
this gracious princess held out her little linger towards me after 
I was set on the table, which I embraced in both my arms, and 
put the tip of it with the utmost respect to my lip. She asked 
me some general questions about my country and my travels, 
which I answered as distinctly and in as few words as I could. 
She asked whether I could be content to live at court. I bowed 
down to the board of the table, and humbly answered, that I was 
my master's slave ; but, if I were at my own disposal, I should 
be proud to devote my life to her Majesty's service. She then 
asked my master whether he was willing to sell me at a good 
price. He, who apprehended that I could not live a month, was 
read}^ enough to part with me, and demanded a thousand pieces 
of gold, which were ordered him on the spot; each piece being 
about the bigness of eight hundred moidores. But allowing for 
the proportion of all things between that country and Europe, 
and the high price of gold among them, this was hardly so great 
a sum as a thousand guineas would be in England. I then said 
to the queen, since I was now her Majesty's most humble creature 
and vassal, I must beg the favor that Glumdalclitch, who had 
always tended me with so much care and kindness, and knew how 
to do it so well, might be admitted into the service, and continue 
to be my nurse and instructor. Her Majesty agreed to my petition, 
and easily got the farmer's consent, who was glad enough to have 
his daughter preferred at court; and the poor girl herself was not 
able to hide her joy. My late master withdrew, bidding me fare- 
well, and saying he had left me in a good service ; to which I 
replied not a word, only making him a slight bow. 

The queen observed my coldness, and, when the farmer was 
gone out of the apartment, asked me the reason. I made bold to 
tell her Majesty that I owed no other obligation to my late master 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 485 

than his not dashing out the brains of a poor harmless creature, 
found by chance in liis fields ; which obligation was amply recom- 
pensed by the gain he had made in showing me through half the 
kingdom, and the price he had now sold me for ; that the life I 
had since led was laborious enough to kill an animal of ten times 
my strength; that my health was much impaired by the continual 
drudgery of entertaining the rabble every hour of the day ; and 
that, if my master had not thought my life in danger, her Majesty 
would not have got so cheap a bargain: but as I was out of all 
fear of being ill treated under tlie protection of so great and good 
an empress, the ornament of nature, the darling of the world, 
the delight of her subjects, the phoenix of the creation, so I 
hoped my late master's apprehensions would appear to be ground- 
less ; for I had already found my spirits revive by the influence of 
her most august presence. This was the sum of my speech, 
delivered with great improprieties and hesitation. The latter 
part was altogether framed in the style peculiar to that people, 
whereof I learned some phrases from Glumdalclitch while she 
was carrying me to court. 

The queen, giving great allowance for my defectiveness in 
speaking, was, however, surprised at so much wit and good sense 
in so diminutive an animal. She took me in her own hand, and 
carried me to the king, who was then retired to his cabinet. Plis 
Majesty, a prince of much gravity and p.ustere countenance, not 
well observing my shape at first view, asked the queen, after a 
cold manner, how long it was since she grew fond of a splacknuck ; 
for such, it seems, he took me to be as I lay upon my breast in 
her Majesty's riglit hand. But this princess, who has an infinite 
deal of wit and humor, set me gently on my feet upon the scru- 
toire, and commanded me to give his Majesty an account of my- 
self ; which I did in a very few words : and Glumdalclitch, who 
attended at the cabinet-door, and could not endure I should be 
out of her sight, being admitted, confirmed all that had passed 
from my arrival at her father's house. 

The king, although he is as learned a person as any in his 
dominions (having been educated in the stud}^ of philosophj^, and 
particularly^ mathematics), yet when he observed my shape exactly, 
and saw me walk erect, before I began to speak, conceived I might 
be a piece of clock-work (which has in that country arrived to a 
very great perfection) contrived by some ingenious person. But 
wh.en he heard my voice, and found what I delivered to be regular 
and rational, he could not conceal liis astonishment. He was by 
no means satisfied with the relation I gave him of the manner I 
came into his kingdom, but thought it a story concerted between 
Glumdalclitch and her father, who had taught me a set of words to 
make me sell at a better price. Upon this imagination he put 



486 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

several other questions to me, and still received rational answers, 
no otherwise defective than by a foreign accent and an imperfect 
knowledge of the language, with some rustic phrases which I had 
learned at the farmer's house, and did not suit the polite style of 
a court. 

His Majesty sent for three great scholars, who were then in the 
weekly waiting according to the custom in that country. These 
gentlemen, after they had examined my shape with much nicety, 
were of different opinions concerning me. They all agreed that 
I could not be produced according to the regular laws of Nature, 
because I was not framed with a capacity of preserving my life, 
either by swiftness, or climbing of trees, or digging holes in the 
earth. They observed by my teeth, which they viewed with 
great exactness, that I was a carnivorous animal ; yet most quad- 
rupeds being an overmatch for me, and field-mice, with some 
others, too nimble, they could not imagine how I should be able to 
support myself, unless I fed upon snails and other insects, which 
they offered by many learned arguments to evince that I could 
not possibly do. One of these virtuosi seemed to think that I 
might be an embryo or abortive birth ; but this opinion was re- 
jected by the other two, who observed my limbs to be perfect 
and finished, and that I hud lived several years, as was manifest 
from my beard, the stumps whereof they plainly discovered 
through a magnifying-glass. They would not allow me to be 
a dwarf, because my littleness was beyond all degrees of com- 
parison ; for the queen's favorite dwarf, the smallest ever known 
in the kingdom, was nearly thirty feet high. After much debate, 
they concluded unanimously that I was only relplum scalcath, — 
which is, interpreted literally, Insets natitrce ; a determination 
exactly agreeable to the modern philosophy of EurojDe, whose 
professors, disdaining the old evasion of occult causes, whereby 
the followers of Aristotle endeavored in vain to disguise their 
ignorance, have invented this wonderful solution of all difficulties, 
to the unspeakable advancement of human knowledge. 

After this decisive conclusion, I entreated to be heard a word or 
two. I applied myself to the king, and assured his Majesty that 
I came from a country which abounded with several millions of 
both sexes and of my own stature ; where the animals, trees, and 
houses were all in proportion ; and where, by consequence, I might 
be as able to defend myseif, and to find sustenance, as any of his 
Majesty's subjects could do here: which I took for a full answer to 
those gentlemen's arguments. To this they only replied by a 
smile of contempt, saying that the former had instructed me 
very well in my lesson. The king, who had a much better 
understanding, dismissing his learned men, sent for the farmer, 
who, by good fortune, was not yet gone out of town. Having, 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 487 

therefore, first examined liim privately, and tlien confronted liim 
with me and the young girl, his Majesty began to think that what 
we told him might possibly be true. He desired the queen to 
order that a particular care should be taken of me ; and was of 
opinion that Glumdalclitch should still continue in her oiiice of 
tending me, because he observed we had great affection for each 
other. A convenient apartment was provided for her at court : 
she had a sort of governess appointed to take care of her educa- 
tion, a maid to dress her, and two other servants for menial offices ; 
but the care of me was wholly appropriated to herself. The queen 
commanded her own cabinet-maker to contrive a box that might 
serve me for a bed-chamber, after the model that Glumdalclitch 
and I should agree upon. This man was a most ingenious artist; 
and, according to my direction, in three weeks finished for me a 
wooden chamber of sixteen feet square, and twelve high, with 
sash-windows, a door, and two closets, like a London bed-chamber. 
Tlie board that made the ceiling was to be lifted up and down by 
two hinges, to put in a bed ready furnished by her Majesty's 
upholsterer, which Glumdalclitch took out every day to air, made 
it with her own hands, and, letting it down at night, locked up 
the roof over me. A nice workman who was famous for little 
curiosities undertook to make me two chairs, with backs and 
frames of a substance not unlike ivory, and two tables, with a 
cabinet to put my things in. The room was quilted on all sides, 
as well as the floor and the ceiling, to prevent any accident from 
the carelessness of those who carried me, and to break the force 
of a jolt when I went in a coach. I desired a lock to my door to 
prevent rats and mice from coming in. The smith, after several 
attempts, made the smallest that ever was seen among them; for 
I have known a larger at the gate of a gentleman's house in 
England. I made a shift to keep the key in a pocket of my o^vn, 
fearing Glumdalclitch might lose it. The queen likewise ordered 
the thinnest silks that could be gotten to make me clothes, — not 
much thicker than an English blanket ; very cumbrous till I was 
accustomed to them. They were after the fashion of the king- 
dom, partly resembling the Persian, and partly the Chinese ; and 
are a very grave and decent habit. 

The queen became so fond of my company, that she could not 
dine without me. I had a table placed upon the same at which 
her Majesty ate (just at her elbow), and a chair to sit on. Glum- 
dalclitch stood on a stool on the floor, near my table, to assist and 
take .care of me. I had an entire set of silver dishes and plates, 
and other necessaries, which, in proportion to those of the queeUj 
were not much bigger than those in a London toy-shop for the 
furniture of a baby-house : these my little nurse kept in her 
pocket in a silver box, and gave me at meals as I wanted them, 



488 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

always cleaning tliem herself. ISTo person dined with the queen hut 
the two princesses royal, — the eldest sixteen years old, and the 
younger at that time thirteen and a month. Her Majesty used to 
put- a hit of meat upon one of my dishes, out of which I carved 
for myself: and her div^ersion was to see me eat in miniature; for 
the queen (wlio had indeed hut a weak stomach) took up at one 
mouthfid as much as a dozen English farmers could eat at a 
meal, which to me was for some time a very nauseous sight. She 
would craunch the wing of a lark, hones and all, hetween her 
teeth, although it were nine times as large as that of a full-grown 
turkey ; and put a bit of bread in her mouth as large as two 
twelvepennj^-loaves. She drank out of a golden cup above a 
hogshead at a draught. Her knives were twice as long as a 
scythe set straight upon the handle : the spoons, forks, and other 
instruments, were all in the same proportion. I remember when 
Glumdalclitch carried me, out of curiosity, to see some of the 
tables at court, where ten or a dozen of those enormous knives 
and forks were lifted up together: I thought I had never till then 
beheld so terrible a siglit. 

It is the custom that every Wednesday (which, as I have ob- 
served, is tlieir sabbath) the king and queen, with the royal issue 
of both sexes, dine together in the apartment of his Majesty, to 
whom I was now become a great favorite ; and at these times my 
little chair and table were placed at his left hand before one of 
the salt-cellars. This prince took a pleasure in conversing with 
nie, inquiring into the manners, religion, laws, government, and 
learning of Europe ; wherein I gave him the best account I was 
able. His apprehension was so clear, and his judgment so exact, 
that he made very wise reflections and observations upon all I 
said. But I confess, that, after I had been a little too copious in 
talking of my beloved country, — of our trade, and wars by sea and 
land; of our schisms in religion, and parties in the state, — the pre- 
judices of his education prevailed so far, that he could not forbear 
taking me up in his right hand ; and, stroking me gentl}^ with 
the other, after a hearty fit of laughing, he asked me whether I 
was a Whig or a Tory. Then turning to his first minister, who 
waited behind him with a white staff nearly as tall as the main- 
mast of " The Royal Sovereign," he observed how contemptible 
a tiling was human grandeur, which could be mimicked by such 
diminutive insects as I. ''And jet," says he, "I dare engage 
these creatures have their titles, and distinctions of honor : they 
contrive little nests and burrows that thej'' call houses and cities ; 
they make a figure, and dress in equipage ; they love, they dispute, 
they fight, tliey cheat, they betray." And thus he continued, 
while my color came and went several times Avith indignation to 
hear our noble country — the mistress of arts and arms, the 



JONATHAN SWIITT. 489 

scourge of France, the arbitress of Europe, the seat of virtue, 
piety, honor, and truth, the pride and envy of the world — so 
contemptuously treated. 

But as I was not in a condition to resent injuries, so, upon ma- 
ture thoughts, I began to doubt whether I was injured or no. 
For after having been accustomed several months to the sight 
and converse of this people, and observed every object upon 
whicli I cast mine eyes to be of proportionable magnitude, the 
horror I had at first conceived from their bulk and aspect 
was so far w^orn off, that if I had then beheld a compan}^ of 
English lords and ladies in their finery and birthday-clothes, 
acting their several parts in the most courtly manner of strutting 
and bowing and prating, — to say the truth, I should have 
been strongly tempted to laugh as much at them as the king and 
his grandees did at me. Neither, indeed, could I forbear smiling 
at mj^self when the queen used to place me upon her hand to- 
wards a looking-glass, by which both our persons appeared before 
me in full view together : and there could be nothing more ridicu- 
lous than the comparison ; so that I reall}^ began to imagine my- 
self dwindled many degrees below my usual size. 

Nothing angered and mortified me so much as the queen's 
dwarf, who, being of the lowest stature that was ever in that 
country (for I verily think he was not full thirty feet high), be- 
came so insolent at seeing a creature so much beneath him, that 
he would always affect to swagger and look big as he passed by 
me in the queen's ante-chamber, while I was standing on some 
table talking with the lords or ladies of the court : and he seldom 
failed of a smart word or two upon my littleness ; against which I 
could only revenge myself by calling him " brother," challenging 
him to wrestle, and such repartees as are usually in the mouths of 
court pages. One day at dinner, this malicious little cub was so 
nettled at sometliing I said to him, that, raising himself upon the 
frame of her Majesty's chair, he took me up by the middle, as I 
was sitting down not thinking any harm, and let me drop into a 
large silver bowl of cream, and then ran awaj^ as fast as he could. 
I fell over head and ears : and, if I had not been a good swimmer, 
it might have gone very hard with me ; for Glumdalclitch at that 
instant happened to be at the other end of the room ; and the 
queen was in such a fright, that she wanted presence of mind to 
assist me. But my little nurse ran to my relief, and took me out 
after I had swallowed above a quart of cream. I was put to bed : 
however, I received no other damage than the loss of a suit of 
clothes, which were utterly spoiled. The dwarf was soundly 
whipped, and, as a further punishment, forced to drink up the 
bowl of cream into whicli he had thrown me : neither was he ever 
restored to favor j for, soon after, the queen bestowed him on a 



490 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

lady of high qualit}^, so that I sa\y him no more, to my very great 
satisfaction ; for I could not tell to what extremity such a ma- 
licious urchin might have carried his resentment. He had before 
served me a scurvy trick, which set the queen a-laughing ; although 
at the same time she was heartily vexed, and would have imme- 
diately cashiered him if I had not been so generous as to inter- 
cede. Her Majesty had taken a marrow-bone upon her j)late, and, 
after knocking out the marrow, placed the bone again on the dish 
erect, as it stood before. The dwarf, watching his opportunity 
when Glumdalclitch was gone to the sideboard, mounted the stool 
that she stood on to take care of me at meals, took me up in both 
hands, and, squeezing my legs together, wedged them into the mar- 
row-bone above my waist, where I stuck for some time, and made 
a very ridiculous tigure. I believe it was near a minute before 
any one knew what was become of me ; for I thought it below me 
to cry out. But, as princes seldom get their meat hot, my legs 
were not scalded ; only my stockings and breeches were in a sad 
condition. The dwarf, at my entreaty, had no other punishment 
than a sound whipping. 

I was frequently rallied by the queen upon account of my 
fearfulness ; and she used to ask me whether the people of my 
country were as great cowards as myself. The occasion was this: 
The kingdom is much pestered with flies in summer; and these 
odious insects, each of them as big as a Dunstable lark, hardly 
gave me any rest while I sat at dinner, with their continual hum- 
ming and buzzing about mine ears. They would sometimes 
alight upon my victuals ; and they would fix upon my nose or 
forehead, where they stung me to the quick, smelling very offen- 
sively ; and I could easily trace that viscous matter, which, our 
naturalists tell us, enables those creatures to walk with their feet 
upwards upon a ceiling. I had much ado to defend myself against 
these detestable animals, and could not forbear starting when 
they came on my face. It was the common practice of the dwarf 
to catch a number of these insects in his hand, as schoolboys do 
among us, and let them out suddenly under my nose, on purpose 
to frighten me, and divert the queen. My remedy was to cut 
them in pieces with my knife as they flew in the air; wherein my 
dexterity was much admired. 

I remember, one morning, when Glumdalclitch had set me in 
a box upon a window, as she usually did in fair days, to give me 
air (for I durst not venture to let the box he hung on a nail out 
of the window as we do with cages in England), after I had 
lifted up one of my sashes, and sat down at my table to eat a 
piece of sweet cake for my breakfast, above twenty wasps, allured 
by the smell, came flying into the room, humming louder than 
the drones of as many bagpipes. Some of them seized my cake, 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 491 

and carried it a fvay piecemeal : others flew about my head and 
face, confounding me with their noise, and putting me in the 
utmost terror of their stings. However, I had the courage to rise 
and draw my hanger, and attack them in the air. I dispatched 
four of them ; but the rest got away : and I presently shut my 
window. These insects are as large as partridges. I took out 
their stings, and found them an inch and a half long, and as 
sharp as needles. I carefully preserved them all ; and having 
since sliown them, with other curiosities, in several parts of 
Europe, upon my return to England I gave three to Gresham 
College, and kept the fourth for myself. 

CHAPTER V. . 

I SHOULD have lived happy enough in that country if my 
littleness had not exposed me to several ridiculous and trouble- 
some accidents ; some of which I shall venture to relate. Glum- 
dalclitch often carried me into the gardens of the court in my 
smaller box ; and would sometimes take me out of it, and hold me 
in her hand, or set me down to walk. I remember, before the 
dwarf left the queen, he followed us one day into those gardens; 
and, my nurse having set me down (he and I being close together 
near some dwarf apple-trees), I must needs show my wit by a 
silly allusion between him and the trees, which happens to hold 
in their language as it does in ours. Whereupon the malicious 
rogue, watching his opportunity when I was walking under one 
of them, shook it directly over my head, by wliich a dozen apples, 
each of them near as large as a Bristol barrel, came tumbling 
about my ears. One of them hit me on the back as I chanced 
to stoop, and knocked me down flat on my face ; but I received 
no other hurt: and the dwarf was pardoned at my desire, because 
I had given the provocation. 

Another day, Glumdalclitch left me on a smooth grassplot 
to divert myself while she walked at some distance witli her 
governess. In the mean time, there suddenly fell such a violent 
shower of hail, that I was immediately, by the force of it, struck 
to the ground; and, when I was down, the hailstones gave me 
sucli cruel bangs all over my body as if I had been pelted with 
tennis-balls : however, I made a shift to creep on all-fours, and 
shelter myself by lying flat on my face on the lee-side of a 
border of lemon-thyme, but so braised from head to foot, that I 
could not go abroad for ten days. Neither is this at all to be 
wondered at, because, Nature in that country observing the same 
proportion through all her operations, a hailstone is near eighteen 
hundred times as large as one in Euroi:)e ; which I can assert 
upon experience, having been so curious as to weigh and measure 
them. 



492 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



n 



But a more (LT;n<]:erous accident happened to me in the same 
garden, wliere my little nurse, believing she had put me in a safe 
place (which I often entreated her to do, tliat I might enjoy my 
own thoughts), and having left tlie box at home to avoid the 
trouble of carrjdng it, went to another part of the garden with 
her governess and some ladies of lier acquaintance. While she 
was absent, and out of hearing, a small white spaniel that 
belonged to one of the chief gardeners, having got by accident 
into the garden, happened to range near the spot where I lay. 
The dog, following the scent, came directly up, and, taking me in 
his mouth, ran straight to his master, wagging his tail, and set 
me gently on the ground. By good fortune, he had been so well 
tauglit, that I was carried between his teeth without the least 
hurt, or even tearing my clothes. But the poor gardener, who 
knew me well, and had a great kindness for me, was in a terrible 
fright: he gently took me up in both his hands, and asked me 
how I did ; but I was so amazed and out of breath, that I could 
not speak a word. In a few minutes I came to myself; and he 
carried me safe to my little nurse, who by this time had returned 
to the place where she left me, and was in cruel agonies when I 
did not appear, nor answer when she called. She severely repri- 
manded the gardener on account of his dog. But the thing was 
hushed up, and never known at court, for the girl was afraid of 
the queen's anger; and truly, as to myself, I thought it would 
not be for my reputation that such a story should go about. This 
accident determined Glumdalclitch never to trust me abroad, for 
the future, out of her sight. I had been long afraid of this 
resolution, and therefore concealed from her some little unlucky 
adventures that happened in those times when I was left by my- 
self. Once a kite, hovering over the garden, made a stoop at me ; 
and if I had not resolutely drawn my hanger, and run under a 
thick espalier, he would have certainly carried me away in his 
talons. Another time, walking to the top of a fresh mole-hill, I 
fell to my neck in the hole through which that animal had cast 
up the earth; "and coined a reason, not worth remembering, to 
excuse myself for spoiling my clothes. I likewise broke my right 
shin against the shell of a snail, which I happened to stumble 
over as I was walking along and thinking on poor England. I 
can not tell whether I was more pleased or mortified to observe 
in these solitary walks that the smaller birds did not appear to 
be at all afraid of me, but would hop about within a yard's dis- 
tance, looking for worms and other food, with as much indifference 
and security as if no creature at all were near them. I remem- 
ber a thrush had the confidence to snatch out of my hand, with 
his bill, a piece of cake that Glumdalclitch had just given me for 
breakfast. When I attempted to catch any of these birds, they 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 493 

would boldly turn against me, endeavoring to peck my fingers, 
which I durst not venture within their reach; and then they 
would hop back, unconcerned, to hunt for worms or snails as they 
did before. But one day I took a thick cudgel, and threw it with 
all my strength, so luckilj^, at a linnet, that I knocked him down, 
and, seizing him by the neck with both my hands, ran with him 
in triumph to my nurse. However, the bird, who had been only 
stunned, recovering himself, gave me so many boxes with his 
wings on both sides of my head and body, though I held him at 
arm's-length and was out of the reach of his claws, that I was 
twenty times thinking to let him go. But I was soon relieved 
by one of our servants, who wrung off the bird's neck ; and I had 
him next diiy for dinner, b}^ the queen's command. This linnet, 
as near as I can remember, seemed to be somewhat larger than 
an English swan. 

The maids of honor often invited Glumdalclitch to their apart- 
ments, and desired she would bring me along with her on pur- 
pose to have the pleasure of seeing and touching me. To me 
their endearments were very disgusting, which I do not mention 
or intend to the disadvantage of those excellent ladies, for whom 
I have all manner of respect ; but I conceive that my sense was 
more acute in proportion to my littleness, and that those illus- 
trious persons were no more disagreeable to their lovers, or to each 
other, than people of the same quality are with us in England. 
And, after all, I found the natural odor of their skin was much 
more supportable than when they used perfumes, under which I 
immediately swooned awa}^ I can not forget that an intimate 
friend of mine in Liliput took the freedom, in a warm day, when 
I had nsed a good deal of exercise, to complain of a strong smell 
about me, although I am as little faultj^ that way as most of my 
sex ; but I suppose his faculty of smelling was as nice with 
regard to me as mine was to that of this people. Upon this 
point I can not forbear doing justice to the queen my mistress, 
and Glumdalclitch my nurse, whose persons were as sweet as 
those of any lady in England. 

One day, a young gentleman, who was nephew to my nurse's 
governess, came and pressed them both to see an execution. It 
was of a man who had murdered one of that gentleman's inti- 
mate acquaintance. Glumdalclitch was prevailed on to be of the 
company, very much against her inclination, for she was natu- 
rally tender-hearted ; and as for myself, although I abhorred such 
kind of spectacles, yet my curiosity tempted me to see something 
that I thought must be extraordinar}^ The malefactor was 
fixed in a chair npon a scaffold erected for tliat purpose, and his 
head cut off at one blow with a sword of fort}^ feet long. The 
veins and arteries spouted up such a prodigious quantity of 



494 E^TGLISH LITERATURE. 

blood, and so high, in the air, that the great jet cVeaii at Ver- 
sailles was not equal for the time it lasted ; and the head, when 
it fell upon the scatrold-lloor, gave such a bounce as made me 
start, although I was at least half an English mile distant. 

The queen, who often used to hear me talk of sea-voyages, and 
took all occasions to divert me when I was melancholy, asked me 
whether I understood how to handle a sail or an oar, and whether 
a little exercise of rowing might not be convenient for my health. 
I answered that I understood both very well ; for although my 
proper employment had been to be surgeon or doctor to the ship, 
yet often, upon a pinch, I was forced to work like a common mari- 
ner. But I could not see liow this could be done in their coun- 
try, where the smallest wherry was equal to a first-rate man-of-war 
among us ; and such a boat as I could manage would never live 
in any of their rivers. Her Majesty said, if I could contrive a 
boat, her own joiner should make it ; and she would provide a 
place for me to sail in. The fellow was an ingenious workman, 
and, by my instructions, in ten days finished a pleasure-boat, with 
all its tackling, able conveniently to hold eight Europeans. When 
it was finished, the queen was so delighted, that she ran with it 
in her lap to the king, who ordered it to be put in a cistern full 
of water, with me in it, by the waj^ of trial, where I could not 
manage my two sculls, or little oars, for want of room. But the 
queen had before contrived another project. She ordered the 
joiner to make a wooden trough of three hundred feet long, fifty 
broad, and eight deep ; which being well pitched, to prevent leak- 
ing, was placed on the floor along the wall in an outer room of 
the palace. It had a tap near the bottom to let out the water 
when it began to grow stale ; and two servants could easil}^ fill it 
in half an hour. Here I often used to row for my own diversion, 
as well as that of the queen and her ladies, who thought them- 
selves well entertained by my skill and agility. Sometimes! 
would put up my sail ; and then my business was only to steer, 
while the ladies gave me a gale with their fans ; and, when they 
Avere weary, some of their pages would blow my sail forward with 
their breath, while I showed m}^ art by steering starboard or lar- 
board as I pleased. AVhen I had done, Glumdalclitch always 
carried back my boat into her closet, and hung it on a nail to 
dry. 

In this exercise I once met with an accident which had like to 
have cost me my life : for, one of the pages having put my boat into 
the trough, the governess who attended Glumdalclitch ver}^ offi- 
ciously lifted me up to place me in the boat; but I happened to slip 
through her fingers, and should infallibly have fallen down forty 
feet upon the floor, if, by the luckiest chance in the world, I had 
not been stopped by a corking-pin that stuck in the good gentle- 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 495 

woman's stomacher. The head of the pin passed between my shirt 
and the waistband of my breeclies ; and thns I was held by the 
middle in the air till Glumdalclitch ran to my relief 

Another time, one of the servants, whose office it was to fill my 
trough every third day with fresh water, was so careless as to let 
a huge frog (not perceiving it) slip out of his pail. The frog lay 
concealed till I was put into my boat, but then, seeing a resting- 
place, climbed up, and made it lean so much on one side, that I 
was forced to balance it with all my weight on the other to pre- 
vent overturning. When the frog was got in, it hopped at once 
half the length of my boat, and then over my head, backward and 
forward, daubing nty face and my clothes with its odious slime. 
The largeness of its features made it appear the most deformed 
animal that can be conceived. However, I desired Glumdalclitch 
to let me deal with it alone. I banged it a good while with one 
of my sculls, and at last forced it to leap out of the boat. 

But the greatest danger I ever underwent in that kingdom was 
from a monkey, who belonged to one of the clerks of the kitchen. 
Glumdalclitch had locked me up in her closet while she went 
somewhere upon business or a visit. The weather being very 
warm, the closet-window was left open, as well as the windows 
and the door of my bigger box, in which I usually lived because 
of its largeness and conveniency. As I sat quietlj^ meditating at 
my table, I heard something bound in at the closet-window, and 
skip about from one side to the other: whereat, although I was 
much alarmed, yet I ventured to look out, but not stirring from 
my seat; and then I saw this frolicsome animal frisking and leap- 
ing up and down, till at last he came to my box, which he seemed 
to view with great pleasure and curiosity, peeping in at the door 
and every window. I retreated to the farther corner of my room, or 
box ; but the monkey, looking in at every side, put me into such 
a fright, that I wanted presence of mind to conceal myself under 
the bed, as I might easily have done. After some time spent in 
peeping, grinning, and chattering, he at last espied me ; and 
reaching one of his paws in at the door as a cat does when she 
plays with a mouse, although I often shifted place to avoid him, 
he at length seized the lappet of my coat (which, being made of 
that country silk, was very thick and strong), and dragged me 
out. He took me up in his right fore-foot, and held me as a nurse 
does a child she is going to suckle, — just as I have seen the same 
sort of creature do with a kitten in Europe; and, when I offered 
to struggle, he squeezed me so hard, that I thought it more pru- 
dent to submit. I have good reason to belieA'e that he took me 
for a young one of his own species, by his often stroking my face 
very gently with his other paw. In these diversions he was 
interrupted by a noise at the closet-door, as if somebody was open- 



406 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ing it : whereupon lie suddenly leaped up to the window at which 
he had come in, and thence upon the leads and gutters, walking 
upon three legs, and holding me in the fourtli, till he clambered 
up a roof next to ours. I heard Glumdalclitch give a shriek at 
the moment he was carrjang me out. The poor girl was almost 
distracted. That quarter of the palace was all in an uproar. The 
servants ran for tlie ladders. The monkey was seen by hundreds 
in the court, sitting upon the ridge of a building, holding me like 
a baby in one of his fore-paws, and feeding me with the other by 
cramming into my moutli some victuals lie had squeezed out of the 
bag on one side of his chaps, aud patting me when I would not eat ; 
whereat many of tlie rabble below could not forbear laugliing : 
neither do I think they justly ought to be blamed ; for, without 
question, the sight was ridiculous enougli to everybody but my- 
self. Some of the people threw up stones, hoping to drive the 
monkey down ; but tliis was strictly forbidden, or else, very proba- 
bly, my brains had been dashed out. 

The ladders were now applied, and mounted by several men, 
which the monkey observing, and finding himself almost encom- 
passed, not being able to make speed enough with his three legs, 
let me drop on a ridge-tile, and made his escape. Here I sat for 
some time, five hundred yards from the ground, expecting every 
moment to be blown down by the wind, or to fall by my own gid- 
diness, and come tumbling over and over from the ridge to the 
eaves ; but an honest lad, one of my nurse's footmen, climbed up, 
and, putting me into his breeches' pocket, brouglit me down safe. 
I was almost choked Avitli the filthy stuff the monkey crammed 
down my throat ; but my dear little nurse picked it out of my 
mouth with a small needle; and then I fell a-vomiting, which gave 
me great relief. Yet I was so weak and bruised in the sides witli 
the squeezes given me by this odious animal, that I was forced to 
keep my bed a fortnight. The king, queen, and all the court, 
sent every day to inquire after ni}'- health ; and her JMajestj'- made 
me several visits during my sickness. The monkey was killed, 
and an order made that no such animal should be kept about the 
palace. 

When I attended the king, after my recover}^, to return him 
thanks for his favors, he was pleased to rally me a good deal upon 
this adventure. He asked me what my thoughts and speculations 
were while I lay in the monkey's paw ; how I liked the victuals 
he gave me ; his manner of feeding ; and whether the fresh air 
on the roof had sharpened my stomach. He desired to know 
what I would have done upon such an occasion in my own coun- 
try. I told his IMajesty that in Enrope we had no monkeys, ex- 
cept such as were brought as curiosities from other places, and so 
small, that I could deal with a dozen of them together if they pre- 



JONATHAN SWIFT. 497 

sumecl to attack me. And as for that monstrous animal with 
Yv'liom I was so lately engaged (it was, indeed, as largo as an ele- 
2")]iant), if my fears had sufiered me tb think so fiir as to make use 
of my hanger (looking fiercely, and clapping my hand npon the 
Iiilt as I spoke) when he poked his paw into my chamber, per- 
il aps I slioiild have giv^en him such a wound as would have made 
him glad to withdraw it with more haste than he put it in. This 
I delivered in a firm tone, like a person who was jealous lest his 
courage should be called in question. However, my speech pro- 
duced nothing else besides a loud laughter, which all the respect 
due to his Majesty from those about him could not make them 
contain. This made me reflect how vain an attempt it is for a 
man to endeavor to do himself honor among tliose wlio are out of 
all degrees of equality or comparison with him. And yet I have 
seen the moral of my own-^ behavior very frequent in England 
since my return, where a little contemptible varlet, without the 
least title to birth, person, wit, or common sense, shall presume to 
look with importance, and put himself upon a footing with the 
greatest person of the kingdom. 

I was every day furnishing the court with some ridiculous stor}'-; 
and Glumdalclitch, although she loved me to excess, yet was arch 
enough to inform the queen whenever I committed any folly that 
she tliouglit would be diverting to her Majesty. The girl, who 
liad been out of order, was carried by her governess to take the 
air about an hour's distance, or thirty miles from town. ' They 
alighted out of the coach near a small footpath in a field; and, 
Glumdalclitch setting down my traveling-box, I went out of it to 
walk. There was* a small heap of dirt in the path, and I must needs 
try my activity by attempting to leap over it. I took a run, but, 
unfortunately, jumped short, and found myself just in the middle, 
up to my knees. I waded through with some difficulty ; and one 
of the footmen wiped me as clean as he could with his handker- 
chief, for I was filthily bemired; and my nurse confined me to my 
box till we returned home, when the queen w^as soon informed of 
what had passed, and tlie footmen spread it about the court; so 
that all the mirth for some days was at my expense. 
32 



498 ENGLISH LITEKATUEE. 

DANIEL DEFOE. 

1661-1731. 

Voluminous writer of fiction and political pamphlets. In simple and natuial 
style, he paints fiction as reality with unsurpassed success. 



BOB INS ON CRUSOE. 

I WAS born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good 
family, though not of that country ; my father being a foreigner 
of Bremen, who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by 
merchandise, and, leaving oif his trade, lived afterwards at York ; 
from whence he had married my mother, whose relations were 
named E-obinson, — a very good family in that country, and from 
whom I was called Kreutznaer : but, by the usual corruption of 
words in England, we are now called, nay, we call ourselves, and 
write our name, Crusoe ; and so my companions always called me. 
I had two elder brothers, one of which was lieutenant-colonel to an 
English regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the 
famous Col. Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dun- 
kirk against the Spaniards. What became of my second brother I 
never knew any more than m}^ father or mother did know what was 
become of me. Being the third son of the family, and not bred 
to any trade, my head began to be filled very early with rambling 
thoughts. My father, who was very ancient, had given me a com- 
petent share of learning, as far as house-education and a country 
free school generally go, and designed me for the law : but I 
would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea ; and my inclina- 
tion to this led me so strongly against the will, nay, the commands, 
of my father, and against all the entreaties and persuasions of my 
mother and other friends, that there seemed to be something fatal 
in that propension of nature, tending directly to the life of misery 
which was to befall me. My father, a wise and grave man, gave 
me serious and excellent counsel agahistwhat he foresaw was my 
design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where he 
was confined by the gout, and expostulated with me very warmly 
upon this subject : he asked me what reasons, more than a mere 
wandering inclination, I had for leaving my father's house, and 
my native country, where I might be well introduced, and had a 
prospect of raising my fortune by application and industry'-, with 
a life of ease and pleasure. He told me it was men of desperate 
fortunes on one hand, or of aspiring, superior fortunes on the other, 
and who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise, and 



DANIEL DEFOE. 499 

make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the 
common road; tliat these things were all either too far abov^e me or 
too far below me ; that mine was the middle state, or what miglit be 
called the upper station of low life, which he had found by long 
experience was the best state in the world, — the most suited to 
human happiness, not exposed to the miseries and hardships, the 
labor and suiferings, of the mechanic part of mankind, and not 
embarrassed with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy of the 
upper part of mankind. He told me I might judge of the happi- 
ness of this state by this one thing, — viz., that this was the state 
of life which all other people envied; that kings have frequently 
lamented the miserable consequence of being born to great things, 
and wished they had been placed in the middle of the two ex- 
tremes, — between the mean and the great ; that the wise man gave 
his testimony to this as the standard of felicity when he prayed 
to have neither poverty nor riches. He bade me observe it, and I 
should always find, that the calamities of life were shared among 
the upper and lower part of mankind; but that the middle station 
had the fewest disasters, and was not exposed to so many vicissi- 
tudes as the higher or lower part of mankind ; na}^, they were not 
subjected to so many distempers and uneasiness, either of body or 
mind, as those were, who by vicious living, luxury, and extrava- 
gances, on the one hand, or by hard labor, want of necessaries, and 
mean or insufficient diet, on the other hand, bring distempers upon 
themselves by the natural consequences of their way of living ; 
that the middle station of life was calculated for all kind of virtues 
and all kind of enjoyments ; that peace and plenty were the 
handmaids of a middle fortune ; that temperance, moderation, 
quietness, health, sotuety, all agreeable diversions, and all desirable 
pleasures, were the blessings attending the middle station of life ; 
that, this way, men went silently and smoothly through the world, 
and comfortably out of it, not embarrassed with the labors of the 
hands or of the head ; not sold to a life of slavery for daily bread, 
or harassed with perplexed circumstances which rob the soul of 
peace, and the body of rest ; nor enraged with the passion of 
envy, or the secret burning lust of ambition for great things ; but 
in easy circumstances, sliding gently through the world, and 
sensibly tasting the sweets of living without the bitter; feeling 
that tiiey are happy, and learning by every day's experience to 
know it more sensibly. 

After this he pressed me earnestly, and in the most affectionate 
manner, not to play the young man, nor to precipitate myself 
into miseries which Nature, and the station of life I was born in, 
seemed to have provided against ; that I was under no necessity 
of seeking my bread ; that he would do well for me, and en- 
deavor to enter me fairly into the station of life which he had 



500 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

just been recommending to mo ; and that, if I was not very easy 
and happy in tlie world, it must he my mere fate or foult that 
must hinder it; and tliat he should have nothing to answer for, 
having thus discliarged his duty in warning me against measures 
wliich he knew would be to my hurt : in a word, that as he would 
do very kind thiugs for me if I would stay and settle at hoine as 
he directed, so he would not have so much hand in my misfortunes 
as to give me aiij'' encouragement to go away. And, to close all, 
he told me I had my elder brother for an example, to whom he 
had used tlie same earnest persuasions to keep him from going 
into the Low-Country wars, but could not prevail, his young 
desires prompting him to run into the army, where he was killed. 
And though he said he would not cease to pray for me, yet he 
would venture to say to me, that, if I did take this foolish step, 
God would not bless me, and I would have leisure hereafter to 
reiiect upon having neglected his counsel where there might be 
none to assist in my recovery. 

I observed in this last part of his discourse, which was truly 
prophetic, though I suppose my father did not know it to be so 
himself, — -I say, I observed the tears run down his face very plen- 
tifully, especially when he spoke of my brother V\dio was killed ; 
and that when he spoke of my having leisure to repent, and none 
to assist me, he was so moved, that he broke off the discourse, and 
told me his heart was so full he could say no more to me. 

I was sincerely aifected with this discourse, — as, indeed, who 
could be otlierwise ? — and I resolved not to think of going abroad 
any more, but to settle at home according to my father's desire. 
But, alas ! a few days wore it all off; and in short, to prevent 
any of ray father's further importunities, in a few weeks after I 
resolved to run quite away from him. However, I did not act 
quite so hastily neither as the first heat of my resolution prompt- 
ed : but I took my mother at a time when I thought her a little 
pleasanter than ordinary, and told her that my thoughts were so 
entirely bent upon seeing the world, that I should never settle to 
any thing with resolution enough to go through with it, and my 
father liad better give me his consent than force me to go without 
it; that I was now eighteen. years old, which was too late to go 
apprentice to a trade, or clerk to an attornej^ ; that I was sure, if 
I did, I should never serve out my time, but I should certainly run 
away from my master before my time was out, and go to sea ; and, 
if she would speak to my father to let me go one voyage abroad, 
if I came liome again, and did not like it, I would go no more; 
and I would promise, by a double diligence, to recover the time that 
I had lost. This put my mother into a great passion. She told 
me slie knew it would be to no purpose to speak to my father upon 
any such subject; that he knew too well what was my interest to 



DANIEL DEFOE. 501 

give liis consent to any thing so miicli for my hurt ; and that she 
wondered liow I could think of any such thing after the discourse 
I had had with my fatlier, and such kind and tender expressions 
as she knew my father had used to me ; and that, in short, if I 
woukl ruin myself, there was no help for me ; that I might de- 
pend I shoidd never have their consent to it ; that, for her part, 
she would not have so much hand in my destruction, and I 
should never have it to say that my mother was willing wlien my 
father was not. Though my mother refused to move it to my 
father, yet I heard afterwards that she reported all the discourse 
to him, and that my father, after showing a great concern at it, 
said to her with a sigh, "That boy might he happy if he would 
stay at home ; but, if he goes abroad, he will be the most miserable 
wretch that ever was born. I can give no consent to it." 

It was not till almost a 3'ear after this that I broke loose; 
though, in the mean time, I continued obstinatel}' deaf to all 
proposals of settling to business, and frequently expostulating 
with my father and mother about their being so positivelj^ deter- 
mined against what they knew my inclinations prompted me to. 

But being one day at Hull, whither I went casually, and with- 
out any purpose of making an elopement at that time, — but, I say, 
being there, and one of my companions being going by sea to 
London in his father's ship, and prompting me to go with them, 
with the common allurement of a seafaring man that it should 
cost me nothing for my passage, I consulted neither father nor 
mother any more, — not so much as sent them word of it ; but 
leaving them to hear of it as they might, without asking God's 
blessing or my father's, without any consideration of circum- 
stances or consequences, and in an ill hour, God knows, on the 
1st of September, 1651, 1 went on board a ship bound for London. 
!Never any young adventurer's misfortunes, I believe, began sooner 
or continued longer than mine. The ship was no sooner got out 
of the Humber but the wind began to blow and the sea to rise in 
a most frightful manner ; and, as I had never been at sea before, 
I was most inexpressibly sick in body, and terrified in mind. I 
began now seriously to reflect upon what I had done, and how 
justly I was overtaken by the judgment of Heaven for my wicked 
leaving my father's house, and abandoning my dut3^ All the 
good counsels of my parents, my father's tears, and my mother's 
entreaties, came now fresh in my mind ; and my conscience, which 
was Tiot 3'et come to the pitch of hardness to which it has been 
since, reproached me with tlie contempt of advice, and the breach 
of my duty to my God and my father. 



502 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



ROBINSON CRUSOE DISCOVERS THE FOOTPRINT. 

It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was 
exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot on tlie 
shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand. I stood like 
one thunder-struck, or as if I had seen an apparition. I listened ; 
I looked round me : I could hear nothing, nor see any thing. I 
went up to a rising ground to look farther; I went up the shore, 
and down the shore : but it was all one ; I could see no other im- 
pression but that one. I went to it again to see if there were any 
more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy : but there was 
no room for that ; for there was exactly the very print of a foot, — 
toes, heel, and every part of a foot. How it came thither I knew 
not, nor could in the least imagine. But after innumerable flut- 
tering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused, and out of myself, 
I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground 
I went on, but terrified to the last degree ; looking behind me at 
every two or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and 
fancying every stump at a distance to be a man. Nor is it possible 
to describe how many various shapes an afirighted imagination 
represented things to me in ; how many wild ideas were formed 
every moment in my fancy ; and what strange, unaccountable 
whimseys came into my thoughts by the way. 

When I came to my castle (for so I think I called it ever after 
this), I fled into it like one pursued. Whether I went over by the 
ladder at first contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock which 
I called a door, I can not remember ; for never frighted hare fled 
to cover, or fox to earth, with more terror of mind than I to this 
retreat. 

I slept none that night. The farther I was from the occasion 
of my fright, the greatermy apprehensions were ; which is some- 
thing contrary to the nature of such things, and especially to the 
usual practice of all creatures in fear : but I was so embarrassed 
wdth my own frightful ideas of the thing, that I formed nothing 
but dismal imaginations to myself, even though I was now a great 
way off it. Sometimes I fancied it must be the Devil : and reason 
joined in with me upon this supposition ; for how should any 
other thing in human shape come into the place ? Where was 
the vessel that brought them ? What marks were there of any 
other footsteps ? and how was it possible a man should come 
there ? But then, to think that Satan should take human shape 
upon him in such a place, where there could be no manner of 
occasion for it but to leave the print of his foot behind him, and 
that even for no purpose too, — for he could not be sure I should 
see it, — this was an amusement the other way. I considered that 



DANIEL DEFOE. 503 

the Devil might have found out abundance of other ways to have 
terrified me than this of the single print of a foot; that, as I lived 
quite on the other side of the island, he would never have been so 
simple as to leave a mark in a place where it was ten thousand to 
one whether I should ever see it or not, and in the sand too, which 
the first surge of the sea, upon a high wind, would have defaced 
entirely : all this seemed inconsistent with the thing itself, and 
with all the notions we usually entertain of the subtlety of the 
Devil. Abundance of such things as these assisted to argue me 
out of all apprehensions of its being the Devil: and I presently 
concluded, then, that it must , be some more dangerous creature j 
viz., that it must be some of the savages of the mainland over 
against me, who had wandered out to sea in their canoes, and, 
either driven by the currents or contrary winds, had made the 
island, and had been on shore, but were gone away again to sea, 
being as loath, perhaps, to have staid in this desolate island as I 
would have been to have them. 

While these reflections were rolling upon my mind, I was very 
thankful in ni}^ thoughts that I was so happy as not to be there- 
abouts at that time, or that they did not see my boat, by which 
they would have concluded that some inhabitants had been in the 
place, and perhaps have searched farther for me. Then terrible 
thoughts racked my imagination about their having found my 
boat, and that there were people here ; and that, if so, I should 
certainly have them come again in greater numbers, and devour 
me ; that if it should happen so that they should not find mo, 
yet they would find my inclosure, destroy all my corn, and carry 
away all my flock of tame goats, and I should perish at last for 
mere want. 

Thus my fear banished all my religious hope, — all that former 
confidence in God which was founded upon such wonderful expe- 
rience as I had had of his goodness ; as if He that had fed me by 
miracle hitherto could not preserve by his power the provision which 
he had made for me by his goodness ! I reproached myself with 
my laziness, that would not sow any more corn'^one year than 
would just serve me till the next season, as if no accident would 
intervene to prevent my enjoying the crop that was upon the 
ground : and this I thought so just a reproof, that I resolved, for 
the future, to have two or three years' corn beforehand ; so that, 
whatever might come, I might not perish for want of bread. 

How strange a checker-work of Providence is the life of man ! 
and by what secret differing springs are the affections hurried 
about as differing circumstances present ! To-day we love what 
to-morrow we hate ; to-day we seek what to-morrow we shun ; 
to-day we desire what to-morrow Vi-e fear, naj^, even tremble at 
the apprehensions of. This was exemplified in me at this time in 



604 ENGLISH LITJERATURE. 

the most lively manner imaginable : for I, whose only affliction 
was that I seemed baiiislied from human society ; that I was alone, 
circumscribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and 
conaemned to what I call a silent life ; that I was as one whom 
Heaven thouglit not worthy to be numbered among the living, or 
to appear among the rest of his creatures ; that to have seen one 
of my own species would have seemed to me a raising me from 
death to life, and the- greatest blessing that Heaven itself, next 
to the supreme blessing of salvation, could bestow, — I say, that I 
should now tremble at the very apprehensions of seeing a man, 
and was ready to sink into the ground at but the shadow or silent 
appearance of a man's having set his foot on the island ! 

Such is the uneven state of human life ; and it afforded me a 
great many curious speculations afterwards, when I had a little 
recovered my first surprise. I considered that this was the station 
of life the infinitely wise and good providence of God had deter- 
mined for me ; that as I could not foresee what the ends of Divine 
Wisdom might be in all this, so I was not to dispute his sover- 
eignty, who, as I was his creature, had an undoubted right by 
creation to govern and dispose of me absolutely as he thouglit fit ; 
and who, as I was a creature who had offended him, had likewitec 
a judicial right to condemn me to what punishment he thought 
fit ; and that it was my part to submit to bear his indignation, 
because I had sinned against him. 

I then reflected, that God, who was not only righteous, but 
omnipotent, as he had thought fit thus to punish and afliict me, 
so he was able to deliver me ; that, if he did not think fit to do it, 
it was my unquestioned duty to resign mj^self absolutely and en- 
tirely to his will ; and, on the other hand, it was my duty also to 
hope in him, pray to him, and quietly to attend the dictates and 
directions of his daily providence. 

These thoughts took me up many hours, days, nay, I may say, 
weeks and months. And one particular effect of my cogitations on 
this occasion I can not omit; viz., one morning early, lying in my 
bed, and filled with thoughts about my danger from the appear- 
ance of savages, I found it discomposed me very much : upon 
which those words of the Scripture came into my thoughts, " Call 
upon Me in the day of trouble^ andl will deliver thee ; and thou 
shalt glorify me." 

Upon this, rising cheerfully out of my bed, my heart was not 
only comforted, but I was guided and encouraged to pray earnestly 
to God for deliverance. When I had done praying, I took up my 
Bible : and, opening it to read, the first words that presented to 
me were, "JFait on the Lord, and he of good courage, and he shall 
strengthen thy heart ^ wait, I say, on the Lord." It is impossible 
to express the comfort this gave me j and, in return, I thankfully 



DANIEL DEFOE. 505 

laid down tlie book, and was no more sad, — at least, not on that 
occasion. 

In the middle of these cogitations, apprehensions, and reflec- 
tions, it came into my thoughts one day that all this might be a 
mere chimera of my own, and that this foot might be the print of 
my own foot when I came on shore from my boat. This cheered 
me up a little too, and I began to persuade myself it was all a de- 
lusion ; that it was nothing else but my own foot. And why might 
not I come that way from the boat, as well as I was going that 
way to the boat ? Again : I considered also that I could by no 
means tell for certain where I had trod, and where I had not ; 
and that if, at last, this was only the print of my own foot, I had 
played the part of those fools ^bo strive to make stories of specters 
and apparitions, and then are themselves frighted at them more 
than anybody else. 

Now I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again ; for I 
had not stirred out of my castle for three days and nights, so that 
I began to starve for provision; for I had little or nothing within 
doors but some barley-cakes and water. Then I knew that my 
goats wanted to be milked too, which usually was my evening 
diversion : and the poor creatures Avere in great pain and incon- 
venience for want of it ; and, indeed, it almost spoiled some of 
them, and almost dried up tlieir milk. 

Heartening myself, therefore, with the belief that this was noth- 
ing but the print of one of my own feet (and so I might be truly 
said to start at my own shadow), I began to go abroad again, and 
went to my country-house to milk my flock. But to see with what 
fear I went forward ; how often I looked behind me ; how I was 
ready every now and then to lay down my basket, and run for 
my life, — it would have made any one have thought I was haunted 
with an evil conscience, or that I had been lately most terribly 
frighted ; and so, indeed, I had. 

However, as I went down thus two or three days, and having 
seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to think there was 
really nothing in it but my own imagination. But I could not per- 
suade myself fully of this till I should go down to the shore again, 
and see this print of a foot, and measure it by my own, and see if 
there was any similitude or fitness, that I might be assured it was 
my own foot. But, when I came to the place first, it appeared 
evidently to me, that, when I laid up my boat, I could not possibly 
be on shore anywhere thereabouts. Secondly, when I came to 
measure the mark with my own foot, I found mj^ foot not so large 
by a great deal. Both these things filled my head with new im- 
aginations, and gave me the vapors again to the highest degree; 
so that I shook with cold like one in an ague : and I went home 
again, filled with the belief that some man or 'men had been on 



506 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

shore there; or, in short, that the island was inhabited, and I 
might be surjDrised before I was aware ; and what course to take 
for my security, I knew not. Oh, what ridiculous resolutions men 
take when possessed with fear ! It deprives them of the use of 
those means which reason oiFers for their relief. 

The first thing I proposed to myself was to throw down my in- 
closures, and turn all my tame cattle wild into the woods, lest the 
enemy should find them, and then frequent the island in prospect 
of the same or the like booty ; then to the simple thing of digging 
up my two corn-fields, lest they should find such a grain there, 
and still be prompted to frequent the island ; then to demolish my 
bower and tent, that they might not see any vestiges of habitation, 
and be prompted to look farther in order to find out the persons 
inhabiting. These were the subjects of the first night's cogitations 
after I was come home again, while the apprehensions which 
had so overrun my mind were fresh upon me, and my head was 
full of vapors as above. Thus fear of danger is ten thousand 
times more terrifying than danger itself when apparent to the 
eyes ; and we find the burden of anxiety greater, by much, than 
the evil which we are anxious about : and, which was worse than 
all this, I had not that relief in this trouble, that, from the resig-. 
nation I used to practice, I hojDed to have. I looked, I thought, 
like Saul, who complained, not only that the Philistines were upon 
him, but that God had forsaken him : for I did not now take due 
ways to compose my mind by crying to God in my distress, and 
resting upon his providence, as I had done before, for my defense 
and deliverance ; which if I had done, I had at least been more 
cheerfully supported under this new surprise, and perhaps carried 
through it with more resolution. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 

1672-1719. 

There is but one opinion of his style: "In a word, one may justly apply to him 
what Plato in his allegorical language says of Aristophanes, — tluit the Graces, 
having searched all the world for a temple wherein they might forever dwell, settled 
at last in the breast of Mr. Addison," Dr. Johnson says, "Whoever wishes to 
attain an English style, familiar, but not coarse, and elegant, but not ostentatious, 
must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison." We select only from 
his prose. 

BICKERS TAFF LEARNING FENCING. 

I HAVE upon my chamber-walls drawn at full-length the figures 
of all sorts of men, from eight feet to three feet two inches. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 507 

[ Within this higlit, I take it that all the fighting-men of Great 
; Britain are comprehended. But, as I push, I make allowances 
: for my being of a lank and spare body, and have chalked out in 
1 every figure my own dimensions ; for I scorn to rob an}'- man of 
his life by taking advantage of liis breath : therefore I press 
purely in a line down from his nose, and take no more of him to 
assault than he has of me. For, to speak impartiall}^, if a lean 
fellow wounds a fat one in any part of the right or left, whether 
it be in carte or in tierce, beyond the dimensions of the said lean 
fellow's own breadth, I take it to be murder, and sucli a murder 
; as is below a gentleman to commit. As I am spare, I am also 
very tall, and behave myself, with relation to that advantage, with 
; the same punctilio ; and I am ready to stoop or stand, according 
t to the stature of my adversary. I must confess, I have had great 
1 -success this morning, and have hit ever}'- figure round the room 
! in a mortal part, without receiving the least hurt, except a little 
i scratch by falling on my face in pushing at one at the lower end 
! of my chamber; but I recovered so quick, and jumped so nimbly 
I into my guard, that, if he had been alive, he could not have hurt 
[ me. It is confessed I have written against duels with some 
■ w^armth ; but, in all my discourses, I have not ever said that I 
, knew how a gentleman could avoid a duel if he were provoked to 
I it: and, since that custom is now become a law, I know nothing 
' but the legislative power, with new animadversions upon it, can 
1 put us in a capacity of denying challenges, though we were after- 
wards hanged for it. But no more of this at present. As things 
' stand, I shall put up no more affronts ; and I shall be so far from 
taking ill words, that I will not take ill looks. I therefore warn 
all hot young fellows not to look, hereafter, more terrible than their 
neighbors ; for, if they stare at me with their hats cocked higher 
than other people, I will not bear it. Nay, I give warning to all 
people in general to look kindly at me : for I will bear no frowns, 
even from ladies ; and, if any woman pretends to look scornfully 
at me, I shall demand satisfaction of the next of kin of the mas- 
culine gender. Tatkr, No. 93. 

1 Oy THE USE OF TEE FAN. 

I DO not know whether to call the following letter a satire upon 
coquettes, or a representation of their several fantastical accom- 
; plishments, or what other title to give it ; but, as it is, I shall 
communicate it to the public. It will sufficiently explain its own 
intentions ; so that I shall give it my reader at length, without 
either preface or postcript : — 

M)\ Spectato-r, — Women are armed with fans, as men with 
swords, and sometimes do more execution with them. To the 



508 ENGLISH LTTERATtJRE. 

end, therefore, that ladies may be entire mistresses of the weapon 
which they bear, I have erected an academy for the training-up 
of young women in the exercise of the fan according to the most 
fashionable airs and motions that are now practiced at court. 
The ladies who carry fans under me are drawn up twice a day in 
my great hall, where they are instructed in the use of their arms, 
and exercised by the following words of command : " Handle your 
fans ! " " Unfurl your fans ! " " Discharge your fans ! " " Ground 
your^fans!" " Kecover your fans!" "Flutter your fans!" By 
the right observation of these few plain words of command, a. 
woman of a tolerable genius, who will apply herself diligently 
to her exercise for the space of but one half-j^ear, shall be able 
to give her fan all the graces that can possibly enter into that 
little modish machine. 

But, to the end that my readers may form to themselves a right 
notion of this exercise, I beg leave to explain it to them in all 
its parts. Wlien my female regiment is drawn up in array, 
with every one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving the 
word to " handle their fans," each of them shakes her fan at me 
with a smile, then gives her right-hand woman a tap upon the 
shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of her fan, then 
lets her arms fall in eas}^ motion, and stands in readiness to receive 
the next word of command. All this is done with a close fan, 
and is generally learned in the first week. 

The next motion is that of unfurling the fan, in which are com- 
prehended several little flirts and vibrations, as also gradual and 
deliberate openings, with many voluntary fallings-asunder in the 
fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month's practice. This 
part of the exercise pleases the spectators more than any other, as 
it discovers, on a sudden, an infinite number of Cupids, garlands, 
altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like agreeable figures, that 
display themselves to view ; whilst every one in the regiment 
holds a picture in her hand. 

Upon my giving the word to ^^ discharge their fans," they give 
one general crack, that may be heard at a considerable distance 
when the wind sits fair. This is one of the most difiicult parts 
of the exercise ; but I have several ladies with me, who at their 
first entrance could not give a pop loud enough to be heard at the 
farther end of the room, who can now discharge a fan in such a 
manner, that it shall make a report like a pocket-pistol. I have 
likewise taken care (in order to hinder young women from letting 
off their fans in wrong places or on unsuitable occasions) to show 
upon what subject the crack of a fan may come in properly. I 
have likewise invented a fan with wliich a girl of sixteen, by the 
help of a little wind which is inclosed about one of the largest 
sticks, can make as loud a crack as a woman of fifty with an ordi- 
nary fan. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 509 

'' When the fans are thus discharged, the word of command, in 
course, is to " ground their fans." This teaches a lady to quit her 
3fan gracefally when she throws it aside in order to take up a pack 
of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a falling jiin, or apply her- 
'self to any otiier matter of importance. This part of the exercise, 
as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long table 
(which stands by for that purpose), may be learned in two days' 
time as well as in a twelvemonth. 

When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let 
'■them walk about the room for some time ; when, on a sudden 
(like ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit), they 
all of them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, and 
place themselves in their proper stations upon my calling out, 
"E/Gcover your fans!" This part of the exercise is not difficult, 
^provided a woman applies her thoughts to it. 
' The fluttering of the fan is the last, and, indeed, the master- 
piece, of the whole exercise ; but, if a lady does not misspend her 
time, she may make herself mistress of it in three months. I 
generally lay aside the dog-days, and the hot time of the summer, 
for the teaching this part of the exercise ; for as soon as ever I 
'pronounce, " Flutter your fans ! " the place is filled with so many 
zephyrs and gentle breezes as are very refreshing in that season 
of the year, though they might be dangerous to ladies of a tender 
constitution in any other. 

There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in the 
flutter of a fan. There is the angry flutter, the modest flutter, 
the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry flutter, and 
the amorous flutter. Kot to be tedious, there is scarce any emotion 
in the mind which does not produce a suitable agitation in the 
fan ; insomuch, that, if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady, I 
know very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I have 
seen a fan so very angrj^, that it would have been dangerous for 
the absent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind 
of it ; and at other times so very languishing, that I have been 
glad, for the lady's sake, the lover was at a sufficient distance 
from it. I need not add, that a fan is either a prude or coquette, 
according to the nature of the person who bears it. To conclude 
my letter, I must acquaint joii that I have from my own obser- 
vations compiled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, 
entitled " The Passions of the Fan," which I will communicate 
to you if you think it may be of use to the public. I shall have 
a general review on Thursday next, to which you shall be very 
welcome if you will honor it with your presence. — I am, &c. 

P.S, — I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gidlanting a fan. 

K.B. — I have several little plain fans made for this use to 
i avoid expense. Sjiectator, No. 102. 



510 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



THE LOVER'S LEAP. 



I SHALL in this paper discharge myself of the promise I have 
made to the public by obliging them with a translation of the 
little Greek manuscript which is said to have been a piece of 
those records that were preserved in the Temple of Apollo upon 
the promontory of Leucate. It is a short history of " The Lover's 
Leap/' and is inscribed, "An account of persons, male and female, 
who offered up their vows in the temple of the Pythian Apollo in 
the forty-sixth Olympiad, and leaped from the promontory of 
Leucate into the Ionian Sea in order to cure themselves of the 
passion of love." 

This account is very dry in many parts, as only mentioning the 
name of the lover who leaped, the person he leaped for, and relat- 
ing-, in short, that he was either cured or killed or maimed by 
the fall. It, indeed, gives the names of so many who died hy it, 
that it w^ould have looked like a bill of mortality had I translated 
it at full length : I have therefore made an abridgment of it, 
and only extracted such particular passages as have something 
extraordinary, either in the case, or in the cure, or in the fate, of 
the person who is mentioned in it. After this short preface, take 
the account as follows : — 

Battus, the son of Menalcas the Sicilian, leaped for Bombyca 
the musician. Got rid of his passion wdth the loss of his right leg 
and arm, wdiich were broken in the fall. 

Melissa, in love with Daphnis. Very much bruised, but escaped 
wdth life. 

Cynisca, the wife of ^schines, being in love watli Lycus ; and 
^schines, her husband, being in love with Eurilla (which had 
made this married couple very uneasy to one another for several 
years). Both the husband and the wife took the leap by consent : 
they both of them escaped, and have lived very happily together 
ever since. 

Larissa, a virgin of Thessaly, deserted by Plexippus after a 
courtship of three years. She stood upon the brow of the i^romon- 
tory for some time ; and after having thrown dow^n a ring, a brace- 
let, and a little picture, with other presents which she had received 
from Plexippus, she threw herself into the sea, and w^as taken up 
alive. 

N.B. — Larissa, before she leaped, made an offering of a silver 
Cupid in the Temple of Apollo. 

Aridteus, a beautiful youth of Epirus, in love with Praxinoe, 
the wife of Thespis. Escaped without damage, saving only that 
two of his fore-teeth were struck out, and his nose a little flatted. 

Cleora, a widow of Ephesus, being inconsolable for the death 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 511 

of her husband, was resolved to take this leap in order to get rid 
of her passion for his memory ; but, being arrived at the promon- 
tory, she there met with Dimmachus the Milesian, and, after a 
1 short conversation with him, laid aside the thoughts of her leap, 
1 and married him in the Temple of Apollo. 

I N.B. — Her widow's weeds are still seen hanging up in the 
western corner of the temple. 

Olpliis the fisherman, having received a box on the ear from 
Thestylis the day before, and being determined to have no more 
to do with her, leaped, and escaped with life. 

Atalanta, an old maid, whose cruelty had several years before 
driven two or three despairing lovers to this leap, being now in 
the fifty-fifth year of her age, and in love with an officer of Sparta, 
broke her neck in the fall. 

Tettyx the dancing-master, in love with Olympia, an Athenian 
matron, threw himself from the rock with great agility, but was 
crippled in the fall. 

Diagoras the usurer, in love with his cook-maid. He peeped 
several times over the precipice; but, his heart misgiving him, he 
went back, and married her that evening. 

Eunica, a maid of Paphos, aged nineteen, in love with Eury- 
bates. Hurt in the fall, but recovered. 

N.B. — This was the second time of her leaping. 

Hesperus, a young man of Tarentum, in love with his master's 
daughter. Drowned, the boats not coming in soon enough to his 
relief. 

Sappho the Lesbian, in love with Phaon, arrived at the Temple 
of Apollo habited like a bride, — in garments as white as snow. 
She wore a garland of myrtle on her head, and carried in her 
hand the little musical instrument of her own invention. After 
having sung a hymn to Apollo, she hung up her garland on one 
side of his altar, and her harp on the other. She then tucked 
up her vestments like a Spartan virgin, and amidst thousands 
of spectators, who were anxious for her safety, and offered up 
vows for her deliverance, marched directly forwards to the utmost 
summit of the promontorj^, where, after having repeated a stanza 
of her own verses, which we could not hear, she threw herself 
off the rock with such an intrepidity as was never before observed 
in any who had attempted that dangerous leap. Many who 
were present related that they saw her fall into the sea, from 
whence she never rose again; though there were others who 
affirmed that she never came to the bottom of her leap, but that 
she was changed into a swan as she fell, and that they saw her 
hovering in the air under that shape. But whether or no the 
whiteness and flutteriiig of her garments might not deceive those 
who looked upon her, or wdiether she might not really be meta- 



512 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

morpbosed into that musical and melancholy bird, is still a doubt 
among the Lesbians. 

Alcseus, the famous l^yric poet, who had for some time been pas- 
sionately in love witli Sappho, arrived at the promontory of Leu- 
cate that very evening, in order to take the leap upon her account; 
but hearing that Sappho had been there before him, and that her 
body could be nowhere found, he very generously lamented her 
fall, and is said to have written his hundred and twenty-fifth ode 
upon that occasion. 

Leaped in this Olympiad, Males 124 Females 126 Total 250 

Cured, „ „ „ 51 „ 69 „ 120 

Spectator, No. 233. 



i 



DISSECTION OF A BEAU'S HEAD. 

A VERY wild, extravagant dream employed my fancy all the 
last night. I was invited, methought, to the dissection of a beau's 
head and a coquette's heart, which were both of them laid on a 
table before us. An imaginary operator opened the first with a 
great deal of nicety, which, upon a cursory and superficial view, 
appeared like the head of another man : but, upon applying our 
glasses to it, we made a very odd discovery ; namely, that what 
we looked upon as brains were not such in reality, but a heap of 
strange materials wound up in that shape and texture, and packed 
together with wonderful art in the several cavities of the skull. 
For as Homer tells us that the blood of the gods is not real blood, 
but only something like it ; so we found that the brain of a beau 
is not a real brain, but only something like it. 

The pineal gland, which many of our modern philosophers sup- 
pose to be the seat of the soul, smelt very strong of essence and 
orange-flower water, and was encompassed with a kind of horny 
substance, cut into a thousand little faces or mirrors, which were 
imperceptible to the naked eye ; insomuch that the soul, if there 
had been any here, must have been always taken up in contem- 
plating her own beauties. 

We observed a large antrum, or cavity, in the sinciput, that was 
filled with ribbons, lace, and embroidery, wrought together in a 
most curious piece of net-work, the parts of which were likewise 
imperceptible to the naked eye. Another of these antrums, or 
cavities, was stuffed with invisible billets-doux, love-letters, pricked 
dances, and other trumpery of the same nature. In another we 
found a kind of powder, which set the whole company a-sneezing, 
and by the scent discovered itself to be right Spanish. The sev- 
eral other cells were stored with commodities of the same kind, of 
which it would be tedious to give the reader an exact inventory. 

There was a large cavity on each side of the head, which I 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 513 

must not omit. That on the right side was filled with fictions, 
flatteries, and falsehoods, vows, promises, and protestations ; that 
on the left, with oaths and imprecations. There issued out a duct 
from each of these cells, which ran into the root of the tongue, 
where hoth joined together, and passed forward in one common 
duct to the tip of it. We discovered several little roads or canals 
running from the ear into the brain, and took particular care to 
trace them out through their several passages. One of them ex- 
tended itself to a bundle of sonnets and little musical instruments; 
otliers ended in several bladders, which were filled either with 
wind or froth : but the large canal entered into a great cavity of 
the skull, from wlience there went another canal into the tongue. 
This great cavity was filled with a kind of spongy substance, 
which the French anatomists call galimatias • and the English, 
" nonsense." 

The skins of the forehead were extremely tough and thick, and, 
what YQvy much surprised us, had not in them any single blood- 
vessel that we were able to discover either with or without our 
glasses ; from whence we concluded that the party, when alive, 
must have been entirely deprived of the faculty of blushing. 

The OS crlhriforme was exceedingly stuffed, and in some places 
damaged, with snuff. We could not but take notice in particular 
of that small muscle, which is not often discovered in dissection, 
and draws tlie nose upwards when it expresses the contempt 
which the owner of it has upon seeing any thing he does not like, 
or hearing any tiling he does not understand. I need not tell my 
learned reader this is that muscle which performs the motion so 
often mentioned by the Latin poets when they talk of a man's 
cocking his nose, or plaj^ing the rhinoceros. 

We did not find any thing very remarkable in the e^^e, saving 
only that the musculi amatorii, or, as we may translate it into 
En owlish, the "ogling muscles," were very much worn and deca^^ed 
with use ; whereas, on the contrary, the elevator, or the muscle 
which turns the eye towards heaven, did not appear to have been 
used at all. 

We were informed that the person to whom this head belonged 
had passed for a man above five and thirty j^ears, during which 
time he ate and drank like other people, dressed well, talked loud, 
laughed frequently, and on particular occasions had acquitted him- 
self tolerably at a ball or an assembly ; to which one of the com- 
pany added, that a certain knot of ladies took him for a wit. He 
was cut off in the flower of his age by the blow of a paring-shovel, 
having been surprised by an eminent citizen as he was tendering 
some civilities to his wife. 

Our operator applied himself in the next place to the coquette's 
heart, which he likewise laid open with great dexterity. There 

33 



514 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

occurred to us many particularities , in this dissection; but, being 
unwilling to burden my reader's memory too much, I shall reserve 
this subject for the speculation of another day. 

■^ Spectator, No. 275. 



DISSECTION OF A COQUETTE'S HEART. 

Havixg already given an account of the dissection of a beau's 
head, with the several discoveries made on that occasion, I shall 
here, according to my promise, enter upon the dissection of a co- 
quette's hearb, and communicate to the public such particulars as 
we observed in that curious piece of anatomy. 

Our operator, before he engaged in this visionary dissection, 
told us that there was nothing in his art more difficult than to lay- 
open the heart of a coquette, by reason of the many labyrinths and 
recesses which are to be found in it, and which do not appear in 
the heart of any other animal. 

He desired us, first of all, to observe the pericardiurn, or out- 
ward case of the heart ; which we did very attentively, and, by 
the help of our glasses, discerned in it millions of little scars, 
which seemed to have been occasioned by the points of innumera- 
ble darts and arrows that from time to time had glanced upon 
the outward coat, though we could not discover the smallest ori- 
fice by which any of them had entered and pierced the inward 
substance. 

Nor must I here omit an experiment one of the company assured 
us he himself had made with the thin, reddish liquor contained in 
the pericardium, which he found in great quantity about the heart 
of a coquette whom he had formerly dissected. He affirmed to us 
that he had actually inclosed it in a small tube made after the 
manner of a weather-glass ; but that, instead of acquainting him 
with the variations of the atmosphere, it showed him the qualities 
of those persons who entered the room where it stood. He affirmed, 
also, that it rose at the approach of a plume of feathers, an em- 
broidered coat, or a pair of fringed gloves ; and that it fell as soon 
as an ill-shaped periwig, a clumsy pair of shoes, or an unfashiona- 
ble coat, came into his house. Nay, he proceeded so far as to as- 
sure us, that, upon his laughing aloud when he stood by it, the 
liquor mounted very sensibly, and immediately sank again upon 
his looking serious. In short, he told us that he knew very well, 
by this invention, whenever he had a man of sense or a coxcomb 
in his room. 

Having cleared away the pericardiiun, or the case, and liquor 
above mentioned, we came to the heart itself. The outward sur- 
face of it was extremely slippery, and the mucro, or point, so very 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 515 

cold withal, that, upon endeavoring to take hold of it, it glided 
through the fingers like a smooth piece of ice. 

The fibers were turned and twisted in a more intricate and per- 
plexed manner than they are usually found in other hearts, inso- 
much that the whole heart was wound up together in a Gordian 
knot, and must have had very irregular and unequal motions 
while it was employed in its vital function. 

Upon weighing the heart in my hand, I found it to be extremely 
light, and consequentlj^ very hollow ; which I did not wonder at, 
when, upon looking into the inside of it, I saw multitudes of cells 
and cavities running one within another, as our historians describe 
the apartments of Kosamond's bower. Several of these little hol- 
lows were stuffed with innumerable sorts of trifles, which I shall 
forbear giving any particular account of, and shall therefore only 
take notice of what lay first and uppermost, which upon our un- 
folding it, and applying our microscopes to it, appeared to be a 
flame-colored hood. 

We are informed that the lady of this heart, when living, re- 
ceived the addresses of several who made love to her, and did not 
only give each of them encouragement, but made every one she 
conversed with believe that she regarded him witli an eye of kind- 
ness ; for which reason we expected to have seen the impressions 
of multitudes of faces among the several plaits and foldings of the 
heart : but, to our great surprise, not a single print of this nature 
discovered itself until we came into the very core and center of it. 
We there observed a little figure, which, upon applying our glasses 
to it, appeared dressed in a very fantastic manner. The more I 
looked upon it, the more I thought I had seen the face before, 
hut could not possibly recollect either the place or time ; when at 
length one of the company, who had examined this figure more 
nicely than the rest, showed us j)lainly by the make of its face, 
and the several turns of its features, that the little idol which was 
thus lodged in the very middle of the heart was the deceased beau 
whose head I gave some account of in my last Tuesdaj^'s paper. 

As soon as we had finished our dissection, we resolved to make 
an experiment of the heart, not being able to determine among 
ourselves the nature of its substance, which differed in so many 
particulars from that of the heart in other females. Accordingly, 
we laid it in a pan of burning coals, when we observed in it a 
certain salamandrine quality, that made it capable of living in the 
midst of fire and flame, without being consumed, or so much as 
singed. 

As we were admiring this strange phenomenon, and standing 
round the heart in a circle, it gave a most prodigious sigli, or rather 
crack, and dispersed all at once in smoke and vapor. This imagi- 
nary noise, which, methought, was louder than the burst of a 



516 -~- ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

cannon, produced sucli a violent shake in my brain, that it dissi- 
pated the fumes of sleep, and left me in an instant broad awake. 

Spectator, No. 281. 

VISIT TO SIR ROGER IN THE COUNTRY. 

Having often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger 
de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last 
week accompanied him thither, and am settled with him for 
some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several 
of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well ac- 
quainted with my humor, lets me rise and go to bed when I 
please ; dine at his own table or in ni}^ chamber, as I think iit ; sit 
still and say nothing, without bidding me be merrj^ When the 
gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me 
at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields, I have 
observed them stealing a sight of me over a hedge, and have 
heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that 
I hated to be stared at. 

I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family because it consists 
of sober and staid persons; for, as the knight is the best master in 
the world, he seldom changes his servants ; and, as he is beloved 
by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him : by 
this means, his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their 
master. You would take his valet-de-chamhreioT his brother; his 
butler is gray-headed ; his groom is one of the gravest men that I 
have ever seen ; and his coachman has the looks of a privy-coun- 
cilor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house- 
dog, and in a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care 
and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has 
been useless for several years. 

I could not but observe with a great deal of pleasure the joy 
that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics 
upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them 
could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master: every 
one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed 
discouraged if they were not employed. At the same time, the 
good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of 
tlie family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with several 
kind questions relating to themselves. This humanit}^ and good 
nature engages everybody to him ; so that, when he is pleasant 
upon any of them, all his family are in good humor, and none so 
much as the person wliom he diverts himself with : on the con- 
trary, if he couglis, or betraj^s any infirmity of old age, it is eas}'- 
for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his 
servants. 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 617 

My worthy friend has put me under tlie particular care of 
his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest 
of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing me, be- 
cause they have often heard their master talk of me as of his 
particular friend. 

My cliief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the 
woods or tlie fields, is a ver}^ venerable man, who is ever with Sir 
Roger, and has lived at his house in tlie nature of a chaplain 
above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense and 
some learning, of a very regular life and obliging conversation. 
He heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in 
the old knight's esteem : so that he lives in the family rather as a 
relation than a dependant. 

I have observed in several of my papers that my friend Sir 
Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of a humorist ; 
and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, 
tinged by a certain extravagance which makes them particularly 
his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast 
of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders 
his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the 
same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their common 
and ordinary colors. As I was walking with him last night, he 
asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now men- 
tioned, and, without staying for my answer, told me that he was 
afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table ; 
for which reason he desired a particular friend of his at the uni- 
versity to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than 
much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, 
and, if possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon. 
"My friend," says Sir Roger, "found me out this gentleman, 
who, besides the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a 
good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the 
parsonage of the parish, and, because I know his value, have 
settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, he 
shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he 
thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years, and, though 
he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that 
time asked any thing of me for himself; though he is every day 
soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my 
tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the 
parish since he has lived among them. If any dispute arises, they 
apply themselves to him for the decision : if they do not acquiesce 
in his judgment, which I think never happened above once or 
twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I 
made him a present of all the good sermons which have been 
printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he 



518 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has 
digested them into sucli a series, that they follow one another 
naturally, and make a continued system of practical divinity." 

As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were 
talking of came up to us ; and, upon the knight's asking him who 
preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the 
Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the after- 
noon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole 
year, where I saw, with a great deal of pleasure, Archbishop 
Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Barrow, Dr. Calamy, with 
several living authors who have published discourses of practical 
divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit but 
I very much approved of ni}^ friend's insisting upon the qualifica- 
tions of a good aspect and a clear voice ; for I was so charmed 
with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as with 
the discourages he pronounced, that I think I never passed any 
time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this 
manner is like the composition of a poet in tlie mouth of a grace- 
ful actor. 

I could lieartily wish that more of our country clergy would 
follow this example, and, instead of wasting their spirits in la- 
borious compositions of their own, would endeavor after a hand- 
some elocution, and all those other talents that are proper to 
enforce what has been penned by great masters. This would 
not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the 
people. Sjpectator, No. 106. 



SIR ROGER AT CHURCH. 

I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and 
think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human insti- 
tution, it would be the best method that could have been thouglit 
of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It is certain tlie 
country-people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and 
barbarians were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, 
in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, 
and in their cleanliest habits, to converse with one another upon 
different subjects, hear tlieir duties explained to tliem, and join 
together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears 
away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their 
minds tlie notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon 
appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such 
qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. 
A country-fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard 
as a citizen does upon the Change ; the whole parish politics being 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 519 

generally discussed in that place, either after sermon, or before 
tlie bell rings. 

My ffiend Sir Roger, being a good Churchman, has beautified 
the inside of his church witli several texts of his own choosing. 
He has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the 
communion-table at his own expense. He has often told me, that, 
at his coming to his estate, he found his parishioners very irregular; 
and that, in order to. make them kneel and join in the responses, 
he gave every one of them a hassock and a common-prayer book, 
and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master (who 
goes about the country for that purpose) to instruct them rightly 
in the tunes of the Psalms ; upon which they now very much 
value themselves, and indeed outdo most of the country churches 
that I have ever heard. 

As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he keeps 
them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it 
besides himself; for if, by chance, he has been surprised into a 
short nap at sermon, upon recovering out" of it he stands up and 
looks about him, and, if he sees anybody else nodding, either 
wakes them himself, or sends his servants to them. Several other 
of tlie old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions. 
Sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing 
Psalms lialf a minute after the rest of the congregation have 
done with it ; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his 
devotion, he pronounces " Amen " three or four times to the same 
prayer ; and sometimes stands up, when everybody else is upon 
their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants 
are missing. 

I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in 
the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to 
mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This 
John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow ; 
and, at that time, was kicking his heels for his diversion. This 
authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner 
which accompanies him in all the circumstances of life, has a 
very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see 
any thing ridiculous in his behavior : besides that, the general 
good sense and worthiness of his character make his friends ob- 
serve these little singularities as foils that rather set off than 
blemish his good qualities. 

As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to stir till 
Sir Roger is gone out of the church. Tlie knight walks down 
from his seat in the chancel between a double row of his tenants 
that stand bowing to him on each side, and every now and then 
inquires how such a one's wife or mother or son or father does 
whom he does not see at church ; which is understood as a secret 
reprimand to the person that is absent. 



526 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechising day, 
when Sir E/Oger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, ho 
has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encour- 
agement, and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to 
his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to 
the clerk's place ; and, that he may encourage tlie young fellows 
to make themselves perfect in the church-service, has promised, 
upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to 
bestow it according to merit. Spectator^ No. 112. 



OTHEH WRITERS OF DISTINCTION. 

Sir Isaac Newton. — 1642-1727. Distinguished philosopher. "Optics;" 
" Princlpia," in Latin; '• The Prophecies;" and several other works. 

Sir RiCHAiio Steele. — 1675-1729. The witty partner with Addison in " The 
Tatler," started by Steele ; and followed by the '• Guardian " and " Spectator," — the 
first important periodicals of English hterature, — '• Tiie Conscious Lovers," and 
other short-lived comedies. 

Isaac Watts. — 1674-1748. "Hymns," "Logic," and "Improvement of the 
Mind." 

Nicholas Rowe. — 1673-1718. " The Fair Penitent," " Jane Shore," and other 
plays. 

Ambrose Phillips. — 1675-1749. "Pastorals." 

Thomas Paknell. — 1679-1718. " The Hermit." 

Thomas Tickell. — 1686-1740. "Colin and Lucy," a ballad; "Kensington 
Gardens; " and contributions to the " Spectator" and "Guardian." 

Allan Ramsay. — 1686-1758. " The Gentle Shepherd," a pastoral drama. 
John Gay.— 1688-1732. " Fables," " Beggar's Opera," and song of " Black- 
eyed Susan." 

RicHAED Savage. — 1697-1729. " The Wanderer." 
Robert P>lair. — 16. 9-1746. " The Grave." 

John Uveu. — 1698-1758. " Grongar Hill," " The Ruins of Rome," and " The 
Fleece." 

Anthony Ashley Cooreu (Earl of Shaftesbury). — 1621-1683. "Charac- 
teristics of .Men, Manners, Opinions, and Times." 

Samuel Clarke. — 1675^1729. Theological and metaphysical works. 
Henry St. John (Viscount Bolingbroke). — 1678-1751. " Reflections on Exile," 
"Letters on the Study of History," "Letters on the Spirit of Pat/iotism," and 
"Idea of a Patriot King." The friend (St. John) of Pope's "Essay." 

George Berkeley. — 1684-1753. " Theory of Vision." A distinguished meta- 
physician, whose philosophy would disprove the existence of matter. 
Lady :\Fary Wortley IMontagu. — 1690-1761. "Letters" 
Philip Stanhope (Enrl of Chesterfield). — 1694-1773. " Letters to his Son." 
Henry Homes (Lord Karnes).— 1696-1782. " The Elements of Criticism." 
Thomas Yalden. William So:\ierville. 

Hexry Grove. Elizabeth Rowe. 

P>ARr<)\ Booth. Anne Finch. 

Esther "^''anhomkigh. 



JOHK DKYDEN. 521 

JOH]Sr DRTDEK 

1631-1700. 

Distinguished writer of prose and poetry. Author of about thirty plays. His 
prefaces and dedications are fine specimens of English. We select from his best 
known work, — the translation of Virgil. 

Arms and the man I sing, who, forced hy fate 
And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate, 
Expelled and exiled, left the Trojan shore. 
Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore ; 
And in the doubtful war, before he won 
The Latin realm and built the destined town, 
His banished gods restored to rights divine, 
And settled sure succession in "his line ; 
From whence the race of Alban fathers come, 
And the long glories of majestic Rome. 

O Muse ! the causes and the crimes relate, — 
What goddess was provoked, and whence her hate ; 
For Avhat oifense the Queen of Heaven began 
To persecute so brave, so just a man. 
Involved his anxious life in endless cares, 
Exposed to wants, and harried into wars : 
Can heavenly minds such high resentment show. 
Or exercise their spite in human woe ? 

Against the Tiber's mouth, but far away. 
An ancient town was seated on the sea, — 
A Tyrian colony ; the people made 
Stout for the war, and studious of their trade ; 
Carthage the name, beloved by Juno more 
Than her OAvn Argos or the Samian shore. 
Here stood her chariot ; here, if Heaven were kind, 
The seat of awful empire she designed. 
Yet she had heard an ancient rumor fly, 
(Long cited by the people of the sky,) 
Tliat times to come should see the Trojan race 
Her Carthage ruin, and her towers deface ; 
Nor, thus confined, the yoke of sovereign sway 
Should on the necks of all the nations lay. 
She pondered this, and feared it was in fate ; 
Nor could forget the war she waged of late, 
For conquering Greece, against the Trojan state. 
Besides, long causes working in her mind. 
And secret seeds of envy, lay behind. 
Deep graven in her heart, the doom remained 
Of partial Paris, and her form disdained ; 
The grace bestowed on ravished Ganymede ; 
Electra's glories, and her injured bed, — 
Each was a cause alone ; and all combined 
To kindle vengeance in her haughty mind. 



522 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

For this, far distant from the Latin coast, 

She drove the remnants of tlie Trojan host ; 

And seven long years the unhappy wandering train 

Were tossed by storms, and scattered through the main. 

Such time, such toil, required the Roman name, 

Such length of labor, lor so vast a frame. 

Now scarce the Trojan fleet with sails and oars 
Had left behind the fair Sicilian shores, 
Entering with cheerful shouts the watery reign, 
And plowing frothy furrows in the main. 
When, laboring still, with endless discontent 
The Queen of Heaven did thus her fury vent : — 

" Then am I vanquished ? must I yield? " said she, 
" And must the Trojans reign in Italy ? 
So Fate will have it, and Jove adds his force; 
Nor can my power divert their happy course. 
Could angry Pallas, wdth revengeful spleen. 
The Grecian navy burn, and drown the men ? 
She, for the fault of one offending foe. 
The bolts of Jove himself presumed to tlirow ; 
With whirlwinds from beneath she tossed the ship, 
And bare exposed the bosom of the deep : 
Then, as an eagle gripes the trembling game, 
The 'ivretch, yet hissing with her father's flame, 
She strongly seized, and with a burning wound, 
Transfixed and naked, on a rock she bound. 
But I, Avho walked in av»'ful state above. 
The majesty of heaven, the sister-wife of Jove, 
For length of years my fruitless force employ 
A2i;ainst the thin remains of ruined Troy. 
What nations now to Juno's power will pray, 
Or offerings on my slighted altars lay ? " 

Thus raged the goddess ; and, with fury fraught, 
The restless regions of the storms she sought, 
Where in a spacious cave of livipg stone 
The tyrant yEolus from his airy throne 
AVith power imperial curbs the struggling winds. 
And sounding tempests in dark prisons binds. 
This way and that, the impatient captives tend. 
And, pressing for release, the mountains rend. 
High in his hall the undaunted monarch stands, 
And shakes his scepter, and their rage commands : 
Which did he not, their unresisted sway 
AVould sweep the world before them in their way; 
Earth, air, and seas through empty space would roll, 
And heaven would fly before the driving souL 
In fear of this, the father of the gods 
Confined their fury to those dark abodes. 

And locked them safe within, oppressed with mountain-loads ; 
Imposed a king, Avith arbitrary sway, 
To loose their fetters, or their force allay. 
To Avhom the suppliant queen her prayers addressed, 
And thus the tenor of her suit expressed : — 



JOHN DKYDEN. 



523 



" O Mollis ! for to thee the King of Heaven 
The power of tempests and of winds has given ; 
Thy turce ah^ne their fury can restrain, 
And smooth the waves, or swell the troubled main: 
A race of wandering slaves, abhorred by me. 
With prosperous passage cut the Tuscan Sea; 
To fruitful Italy their course they steer, 
And for their vanquished gods design new temples there. 
Raise all thy winds ; with night involve the skies : 
Sink or disperse my fatal enemies ! 
Twice seven, the charming daughters of the main, 
Around my person wait, and bear my train. 
Succeed my wish, and second my design, 
The fairest, Deiopeia, shall be thine. 
And make thee father of a happy line." 

To this the god : " 'Tis yours, O queen ! to will 
The work which duty bids me to fulfill. 
These airy kingdoms and this wide command 
Are all the presents of your bounteous hand ; 
Yours is my sovereign's grace ; and, as your guest, 
I sit with gods at their celestial feast ; 
Raise tempests at your pleasure, or subdue ; 
Dispose of empire which I hold from you." 

He said, and hurled against the mountain-side 
His quivering spear, and all the god applied. 
The raging winds rush through the hollow wound, 
And dance aloft in air, and skim along the ground ; 
Then, settling on the sea, the surges sweep, 
Raise liquid mountains, and disclose the deep. 
South, East, and West, with mixed confusion roar, 
And roll the foaming billows to the shore. 
The cables crack ; the sailors' fearful cries 
Ascend ; and sable night involves the skies ; 
And heaven itself is ravished from their eyes. 
Loud peals of thunder from the poles ensue ; 
Then flashing fires the transient light renew : 
The face of things a frightful image bears ; 
And present death in vai'ious forms appears. 
Struck with unusual fright, the Trojan chief, 
With lifted hands and eyes, invokes relief: — 

" And thrice and four times happy those," he cried, 
" That under llian walls before their parents died 1 
Tydides, bravest of the Grecian train, 
Why could not I by that strong arm be slain. 
And lie by noble Hector on the plain; 
Or great Sarpedon, in those bloody fields 
Where Simois rolls the bodies and the shields 
Of heroes whose dismembered hands yet bear 
The dart aloft, and clinch the pointed spear?" 

Thus Avhile the pious prince his fate bewails. 
Fierce Boreas drove against his flying sails. 
And rent the sheets. The raging billows rise. 
And mount the tossing vessel to the skies ; 



524 ENGLISH LITEEATUKE. 

Nor can the shivering oars sustain the blow : 

The galley gives her side, and turns her prow ; 

While those astern, descending down the steep, 

Tlirough gaping waves behold the boiling deep. 

Three ships were hurried by the southern blast, 

And on the secret shelves with fury cast. 

Those hidden rocks tlie Ausonian sailors knew : 

They called them altars when they rose in view, 

And showed their spacious backs above the flood. 

Three more fierce Eurus in his angry mood 

Dashed on the shallows of the moving sand, 

And in mid ocean left them moored aland. 

Orontes' bark, that bore the Lycian crew 

(A horrid sight) even in the hero's view, 

From stem to stern by waves was overborne. 

The trembling pilot, from his rudder torn. 

Was headlong hurled ; thrice round the ship was tossed ; 

Then bilged at once, and in the deep was lost. 

And here and there above the waves were seen 

Arms, pictures, precious goods, and floating men. 

The stoutest vessel to the storm gave way. 

And sucked through loosened planks the rushing sea. 

Uioneus was her chief. Alethes old, 

Achates faithful, Abas young and bold, 

Endured not less : their ships, with gaping seams, 

Admit the deluge of the briny streams. 

Meantime imperial Neptune heard the sound 
Of raging billows breaking on the ground : 
Displeased, and fearing for his Avatery reign, 
He reared his awful head above the main. 
Serene in majesty, then rolled his eyes 
Around the s[)ace of earth, the seas and skies. 
He saw the Trojan fleet dispersed, distressed, 
By stormy winds and wintry heaven oppressed. 
Full well the god his sister's envy knew. 
And what her aims, and what her arts pursue. 
He sunmioned Eurus and the western blast ; 
And first an angry glance on both he cast ; 
Then thus rebuked : " Audacious winds ! from whence 
This bold attempt, this rebel insolence ? 
Is it for you to ravage seas and land, 
Unauthorized by my supreme command ? 
To raise such mountains on the troubled main ? 
Whom I — But first 'tis fit the billows to restrain, 
And then you shall be taught obedience to my reign. 
Hence to your lord my royal mandate bear : 
The realms of ocean, and the fields of air. 
Are mine, not his ; by fatal lot to me 
The li({uid empire fell, and trident of the sea. 
His power to hollow caverns is confined : 
There let him rei'in, the jailer of the wind; 
With hoarse commands his breathing subjects call ; 
And boast and bluster in his empty hall." 



JOHN DEYDEN. 525 

He spoke ; and, while lie spoke, lie smoothed the sea, 
Dispelled the darkness, and restored the day. 
Cvmothoe, Triton, and the sea-green train 
Of beauteous nymphs, the daughters of the main, 
Clear from the rocKs the vessels with their hands : 
The god himself with ready trident stands, 
And opes the deep, and spreads the moving sands ; 
Then heaves them off the shoals. Where'er he guides 
His finny coursers, and in triumph rides, 
The waves unruffle, and the sea subsides. 
As when in tumults rise the ignoble crowd, 
Mad are their motions, and their tongues are loud ; 
And stones and brands in rattling volleys fly. 
And all the rustic arms that fury can supply : 
If then some grave and pious man appear. 
They hush their noise, and lend a listening ear; 
He soothes with sober words their angry mood, 
And quenches their innate desire of blood. 
So, when the father of the flood appears. 
And o'er the seas his sovereign trident rears, 
Their fury falls. He skims the liquid plains, 
High on his chariot, and with loosened reins 
Majestic moves along, and awful peace maintains. 
The weary Trojans ply their shattered oars 
To nearest land, and make the Libyan shores. 

Within a long recess there lies a bay : 
An island shades it from the rolling sea, 
And forms a port secure for ships to ride. 
Broke by the jutting land on either side : 
In double streams the briny waters glide. 
Betwixt two rows of rocks, a sylvan scene 
Appears above, and groves for ever green. 
A grot is formed beneath, with mossy seats. 
To rest the Nereids, and exclude the heats. 
Down through the crannies of the living walls 
The crystal streams descend in murmuring falls. 
Ko hawsers need to bind the vessels here. 
Nor bearded anchors ; for no storms they fear. 
Seven ships within this happy harbor meet, — 
The thin remainders of the scattered fleet. 
The Trojans, worn with toils, and spent with woes. 
Leap on the welcome land, and seek their wished repose. 
First, good Achates, Avith repeated strokes 
Of clashing flints, their hidden fire provokes ; 
Short flame succeeds ; a bed of Avitliered leaves 
The dying sparkles in their fall receives : 
Caught into life, in fiery fumes they rise, 
And, fed with stronger food, invade the skies. 
The Trojans, dropping wet, or stand around 
The cheerful blaze, or lie along the ground : 
Some dry their corn infected Avith the brine. 
Then grind with marbles, and prepare to dine. 



526 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

^neas climbs the mountain's airy brow, 
And takes a prospect of the seas below, — 
If Capys thence, or Antheus, he could spy, 
Or see"^the streamers of "The Caicus" fly. 
No vessels were in view ; but on the plain 
Three beamy stags command a lordly train 
Of branching heads : the more ignoble throng- 
Attend their stately steps, and slowly grace along. 
He stood ; and, while secure they fed below, 
He took the quiver and the trusty bow 
A^chates used to bear : the leaders first 
He laid along, and then the vulgar pierced ; 
Nor ceased his arrows till the shady plain 
Seven mighty bodies Avith their blood distain. 
For the seven ships he made an equal share. 
And to the port returned triumphant from the war. 
The jars of generous wine (Acestes' gift 
When his Trinacrian shores the navy left) 
He set abroach, and for the feast prepared, 
In equal portions with the venison shared. 
Thus, while he dealt it round, die pious chief 
With cheerful words allayed the common grief: — 

" Endure and conquer : Jove will soon dispose 
To future good our past and present woes. 
With me the rocks of Scylla you have tried ; 
The inhuman Cyclops and his den defied : 
What greater ills hereafter you can bear. 
Resume your courage, and dismiss your care. 
An hour will come, with pleasure to relate 
Your sorrows past as benefits of Fate. 
Through various hazards and events we move 
To Latium, and the realms foredoomed by Jove. 
Called to the seat (the promise of the skies). 
Where Trojan kingdoms once again may rise. 
Endure the hardships of your present state ; 
Live, and reserve yourselves for better fate." 

These words he spoke, but spoke not from his heart : 
His outward smiles concealed his inward smart. 
The jolly crew, unmindful of the past, 
The quarry share, their plenteous dinner haste : 
Some strip the skin ; some portion out the spoil ; 
(The limbs, yet trembling, in the caldrons boil ;) 
Some on the fire the reeking entrails broil. 
Stretched on the grassy turf, at ease they dine. 
Restore their strength with meat, and cheer their souls with wine 
Their hunger thus appeased, their care attends 
The doubtful fortune of their absent friends : 
Alternate hopes and fears their nunds possess, 
Whether to deem them dead, or in distress. 
Above the rest, ^Eneas mourns the fate 
Of brave Orontes, and the uncertain state 
Of Gyas, Lycus, and of Amycus : 
The day, but not their sorroAvs, ended thus. 



JOHK DRYDEK 527 

Wlien from aloft almighty Jove surveys 
Earth, air, and shores, and naviixable seas, 
At length on Libyan realms he fixed his eyes ; 
Whom, pondering thus on human miseries, 
' AVhen Venus saw, she with a lowly look, 
Not free from tears, her heavenly sire bespoke : — 

" O king of gods and men, whose awful hand 
Disperses thunder on the seas and land, 
Disposes all with absolute command ! 
How could my pious son thy power incense ? 
Or what, alas ! is vanished Troy's offense ? 
Our hope of Italy not only lost 
On various seas, by various tempests tossed. 
But shut from every shore, and barred from every coasto 
You promised once, a progeny divine 
Of Romans, rising from the Trojan line. 
In after-times should hold the world in awe, 
And to the land and ocean give the law. 
How is your doom reversed which eased my care ? 
When Troy was ruined in that cruel war, 
Then flites to fates I could oppose ; but now, 
When Fortune still pursues her former blow. 
What can I hope V What worse can still succeed ? 
What end of labors has your will decreed? 
Antenor from the midst of Grecian hosts 
Could pass secure, and pierce the Illyrian coasts, 
Where, rolling down the steep, Timavus raves. 
And through nine channels disembogues his waves. 
At length he founded Padua's happy seat, 
And gave his Trojans a secure retreat ; 
There fixed their arms, and there renewed their name. 
And there in quiet rules, and crowned with fame : 
But we, descended from your sacred line, 
Entitled to your heaven and rites divine. 
Are banished earth, and, for the wrath of one. 
Removed from Latium and the promised throne. 
Are these our scepters ? these our due rewards ? 
And is it thus that Jove his plighted faith regards ? " 

To whom the father of immortal race. 
Smiling with that serene, indulgent face 
With which he drives the clouds and clears the skies. 
First gave a holy kiss ; then thus replies : — 

" Daughter, dismiss thy fears. To thy desire 
The fiites of thine are fixed, and stand entire. 
Thou shalt behold thy wished Lavinian walls ; 
And, ripe for heaven, when Fate ^neas calls. 
Then shalt thou bear him up sublime to me : 
No councils have reversed my firm decree. 
And, lest new fears disturb thy happy state. 
Know I have searched the mystic rolls of fate. 
Thy son (nor is the appointed season far) 
In Italy shall wage successful w^ar ; 



528 ENGLISH LITEKATUKE. 

Shall tame fierce nations in the bloody field, 

And sovcreii^n laws impose, and cities build; 

Till, after every foe subdued, the Sun 

Thrice through the signs his annual race shall run : 

This is his time prefixed. Ascanius then, 

Now called liilus, shall begin his reign. 

lie thirty rolling years the crown shall wear, 

Then from Lavinium shall the seat transfer, 

And with hard labor Alba Longa build : 

The throne Avith his succession shall be filled 

Three hundred circuits more ; then shall be seen 

Ilia the fair, a priestess and a queen, 

\Vho, full of ]\Iars, in time, with kindly throes, 

Shall at a birth two goodly boys disclose. 

The royal babes a tawny wolf shall drain : 

Then Komulus his grandsire's throne shall gain, 

Of martial towers the founder shall become, 

The people Romans call, the city Rome. 

To them no bounds of empire I assign, 

Nor term of years to their immortal line. 

Even haughty Juno, who, with endless broils. 

Earth, seas, and heaven, and Jove himself, turmoils, 

At length atoned, her friendly power shall join 

To cherish and advance the Trojan line. 

The subject-world shall Rome's dominion own. 

And, prostrate, shall adore the nation of the gown. 

An age is ripening in revolving fate 

When Troy shall overturn the Grecian state ; 

And sweet revenge her conquering sons shall call 

To crush the people that conspired her fall. 

Then Csesar from the Julian stock shall rise. 

Whose empire ocean, and whose fame the skies, 

Alone shall bound ; whom, fraught with Eastern spoils, 

Our heaven, the just reward of human toils. 

Securely shall repay with rites divine ; 

And incense shall ascend before his sacred shrine. 

Then dire debate and impious war shall cease, 

And the stern age be softened into peace ; 

Then banished faith shall once again return. 

And vestal fires in hallowed temples burn ; 

And Remus with Quirinus shall sustain 

The righteous laws, and fraud and force restrain. 

Janus himself before his fane shall wait. 

And keep the dreadful issues of his gate 

With bolts and iron bars : within remains 

Imprisoned Fury, bound in brazen chains. 

High on a trophy raised, of useless arms. 

He sits, and threats the world Avith vain alarms." 

He said, and sent Cyllenius with command 
To free the ports, and ope the Punic land 
To Trojan guests, lest, ignorant of fate. 
The queen might force them from her town and state. 



JOHN DRYDEN. 529 



Down from tlie steep of heaven Cjllenius flies, 
, And cleaves with all his wings the yielding skies. 
Soon on the Libyan shore descends the god, 
Performs his message, and displays his rod : 
The surly murmurs of the people cease; 
And, as the Fates required, they give the peace. 
The queen iierself suspends the rigid laws, 
The Trojans pities, and protects their cause. 

Meantime in shades of night ^neas lies ; 
Care seized his soul, and sleep forsook his eyes : 
But, when the sun restored the cheerful day, 
He rose the coast and country to survey, 
Anxious and eager to discover more. 
It looked a wild, uncultivated shore ; 
But whether human kind, or beasts alone. 
Possessed the new-found region, was unknown. 
Beneath a ledge of rocks his fleet he hides : 
Tall trees surround the mountain's shady sides ; 
The bending brow above, a safe retreat provides. 
Armed with two pointed darts, he leaves his friends ; 
And true Achates on his steps attends. 
Lo, in the deep recesses of the wood. 
Before his eyes his goddess-mother stood i — 
A huntress in her habit and her mien, 
Her dress a maid, lier air confessed a queen. 
Bare were her knees ; and knots her garments bind; 
Loose was her hair, and wantoned in the wind ; 
Her hand sustained a bow ; her quiver hung behind : 
She seemed a virgin of the Spartan blood. 
With such array, Harpalice bestrode 
Her Thracian courser, and outstripped the rapid flood. 

" Ho, strangers ! have you lately seen," she said, 
" One of my sisters, like myself arrayed. 
Who crossed the lawn, or in the forest strayed? 
A painted quiver at her back she bore ; 
Varied with spots, a lynx's- hide she wore ; 
And at full cry pursued the tusky boar." 
Thus Venus. Thus her son replied again : — 

" None of your sisters have we heard or seen, 
O Virgin ! or what other name you bear 
Above that style, O more than mortal fair I 
Your voice and mien celestial birth betray. 
If, as you seem, the sister of the Day, 
Or one at least of chaste Diana's train, 
Let not a humble suppliant sue in vain ; 
But tell a stranger, long in tempests tossed, 
What earth we tread, and who commands the coast ; 
Then on your name shall wretched mortals call. 
And offered victims at your altars fall." 

" I dare not," she replied, " assume the name 
Of goddess, or celestial honors claim ; 
34 



530 ENGLISH LITERATTJEB, 

For Tyrian Tirguis bows and quivers bear. 

And purple buskins oVr their ankles wear. 

Know, gentle youth, in Labyan lands you are^ — 

A people rude in j>eacey and rough in war. 

The rising city which from far you see 

Is Carthage, and a Tyrian colony. 

PhcBnieian IHdo rules the growing state^ 

Who fled from Tyi-e to shun a brother's hate : 

Great were her wrongs, her story full of iate. 

Which J will sum in short. Sichseus, known 

For wealth, and brother to the Punic throne. 

Possessed fair IKdo's bed ; and either heart 

At once was wounded with an equal dart. 

Her father gave her, yet a spotless maid. 

Pygmalion then the Tyrian scepter swayed, — 

One who eoBtemned divine and human laws : 

Then strife ensued, and cursed gold the cause. 

The monarch, blinded with desire of wealth, 

With steel invades his brother's life by stealth -• 

Before the sacred altar made him bleed. 

And lon^ from her concealed the cruel deed. 

Some takr, some new pretense, he daily coined. 

To soothe his sister, and delude her mind. 

At length, in dead of night, the ghost appears 

Of her unhappy lord. The specter stares, 

And with erected eyes his bloody bosom bares. 

The cruel altars and his fate he tells, 

And the dire secret of his house reveals ; 

Then warns the widow and her hoosehold gods 

To seek a refuge in remote abodes. 

Last, to support her in so long a way, 

He shows her where his hidden treasure lay. 

Admonished thus, and seized with mortal fright. 

The queen provides companions of her flight : 

They meet, and all combine to leave the state 

Who hate the tyrant, or who fear his hate. 

They seize a fleet which ready rigged they find ; 

Kor is Pygmalion's treasure left behind. 

The vessels, heavy-laden, put to sea 

With prosperous winds : a woman leads the way. 

I know not if by stress of weather driven, 

Or was their fatal course disposed by Heaven. 

At last they landed where fi'om far your eyes 

May view the turrets of New Carthage rise ; 

There bought a space of ground, which, B}Tsa called 

From the buU's-hide, they first inclosed and walled. 

But whence are you ? what country' claims your birth ? 

What seek you, strangers, on the Libyan earth ? " 

To whom, with soitow streaming from his eyes, 
And deeply sighing, thus her son replies : — 

" Could you with patience hear, or I relate, 
O njTnph ! the tedious annals of our fate, — 



JOHN DRYDEN. 631 

Tlirough such a train of woes if I should run, 
The day would sooner than the tale be done. 
From ancient Troy, by force expelled, we came, 
(If you by chance have heard the Trojan name.) 
On various seas, by various tempests tost, 
At length we landed on your Libyan coast. 
The good ^neas am I called ; a name. 
While fortune favored, not unknown to fame. 
My household gods, companions of my woes, 
With pious care I rescued from our foes. 
To fruitful Italy my course was bent ; 
And from the king of heaven is my descent. 
With twice ten sail I crossed the Phrygian Sea : 
Fate and my mother-goddess led my way. 
Scarce seven, the thin remainder of my fleet. 
From storms preserved, within vour harbor meet. 
Myself distressed, an exile, and unknown. 
Debarred from Europe, and from Asia thrown, 
In Libyan deserts wander thus alone." 

His tender parent could no longer bear, 
But, interposing, sought to soothe his care : — 

" Whoe'er you are, not unbeloved by Heaven, 
Since on our friendly shore your ships are driven, 
Have courage : to the gods permit the rest, 
And to the queen expose your just request. 
Now take this earnest of success for more : 
Your scattered fleet is joined upon the shore ; 
The winds are changed, your friends from danger free, 
Or I renounce my skill in augury. 
Twelve swans behold in beauteous order move, 
And stoop with closing pinions from above. 
Whom late the bird of Jove had driven along. 
And through the clouds pursued the scattering throng : 
Now, all united in a goodly team, 
They skim the ground, and seek the quiet stream, 
As they, with joy returning, clap their wings, 
And ride the circuit of the skies in rings. 
Not otherwise your ships, and every friend, 
Already hold the port, or with swift sails descend. 
No more advice is needful ; but pursue 
The path before you, and the town in view." 

Thus having said, she turned, and made appear 
Her neck refulgent, and disheveled hair ; 
Which, flowing from her shoulders, reached the ground. 
And widely spread ambrosial scents around : 
In length of train descends her sweeping gown ; 
And by her graceful walk the Queen of Love is known. 



532 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

JOHN BUNYAK 

1628-1688. 

Autlior of the unequaled allegory, " The Pilginm's Progress." Although the 
author of many other works, this alone has made him immortal. 



VALIANT ^S STORY. 

TuB^ said Great-Heart to Mr. Valiant-for-Trutli, " Thou hast 
worthily hehaved thyself: let me see thy sword." So he showed 
it to him. When he had taken it in his hand, and looked 
thereon a while, he said, " Ha ! it is a right Jerusalem hlade." 

Valiant. — It is so. Let a man have one of these hlades, with 
a hand to wield it, and skill to use it, and he may venture upon 
an angel with it. He need not fear its holding, if he can but tell 
how to lay on. Its edge will never blunt. It will cut flesh and 
bones, and soul and spirit, and all. 

Great. — But j^ou fought a great while : I wonder you were not 
weary. 

Valiant. — I fought till my sword did cleave to my hand ; atid 
then they were joined together as if a sword grew out of my 
arm ; and when the blood ran through my fingers, then I fought 
with most courage. 

Great. — Thou hast done well : thou hast resisted unto blood, 
striving against sin. Thou shalt abide hy us, come in and go 
out with us; for we are thy companions. Then they took him, 
and washed his wounds, and gave him of Mdiat they had to 
refresh him ; and so they went on together. 

Now, as they went on, because Mr. Great-Heart was delighted 
in him (for he loved one greatly that he found to be a man of 
his hands), and because there were in company they that were 
feeble and weak, therefore he questioned with him about many 
things; as, first, what countryman he was. 

Valiant. — I am of Dark-Land; for there was I born, and 
there my father and mother are still. 

" Dark-Land," said the guide : " doth not that lie on the same 
coast with the City of Destruction ? " 

Valiant. — Yes, it doth. Now, that which caused me to come 
on pilgrimage was this: We had one Mr. Tell-True come into 
our parts ; and he told about what Christian had done, that went 
from the City of Destruction ; namely, how he had forsaken his 
wife and children, and had betaken himself to a pilgrim's life. 



JOHN BUNYAN. 633 

It was also confidently reported how he had killed a serpent 
that had come out to resist him in his journey; and how he 
got througli to whither he intended. It was also told what wel- 
come he had at all his Lord's lodgings, especially when he came 
to the gates of the Celestial City; "for there," said the man, "he 
was received with sound of trumpet by a company of shining 
ones." He told, also, how all the bells in the city did ring for joy 
at his reception, and what golden garments he was clothed with ; 
with many other things that now I sliall forbear to relate. In a 
word, that man so told the story of Christian and his travels, that 
my heart fell into a burning haste to be gone after him. Nor 
could father or mother stay me : so I got from them, and am 

^ come thus far on my way. 

' Great. — You came in at the gate; did you not? 

^ Vallcmt. — Yes, yes ! for the same man also told us that all 
would be nothing if we did not begin to enter this way at the 

^gate. "Look you," said the guide to Christiana, "the pilgrimage 

^ of your husband, and what he has gotten thereby, is spread abroad 
far and near." 

Valiant. — Why, is this Christian's wife ? 

Great. — Yes, that it is ; and these, also, are his four sons. 

' Valiant. — What! and going on pilgrimage too ? 
Great. — Yes, verily, they are following after. 

' Valiant. — It glads me at the heart. Good man, how joyful 

'• will he be when he shall see them that would not go with him, 

^ yet to enter after him in at the gates into the Celestial City ! 

Great. — Without doubt it will be a comfort to him ; for, next 

' to the joy of seeing himself there, it will be a joy to meet there 

• his wife and cliildren. 

I Valiant. — But, now jovi are upon that, pray let me see your 
•t opinion about it. Some make a question whether we shall know 
> one another when we are there. 

I Great. — Do jou think they shall know themselves then, or 
that they shall rejoice to see themselves in that bliss ? and, if 

• they think they shall know and do this, whj'" not know others, 

I and rejoice in their welfare also ? Again : since relations are our 
second self, though that state will be dissolved there, yet why 
may it not be rationally concluded that we shall be more glad to 
see them there than to see they are wanting ? 

Valiant. — Well, I perceive whereabouts you are as to this. 
Have you any more things to ask me about ni}^ beginning to 
come on pilgrimage ? . 

Great. — Yes : were your father and mother willing that you 
should become a pilgrim ? 

Valiant. — Oh, no ! they used all means imaginable to per- 
suade me to stay at home. 



534 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Great. — Why, what could they say against it ? 

Valiant. — They said it was an idle life ; and, if I myself were 
not inclined to sloth and laziness, I would never countenance a 
pilgrim's condition. 

Great. — And what did they say else ? 

Vallarit. — Why, they told me that it was a dangerous way : 
yea, the most dangerous way in the world, say they, is that 
which the pilgrims go. 

Great. — Did they show you wherein this way is so dangerous ? 

Valiant. — Yes ; and that in many particulars. 

Great. — Name some of them. 

Valiant. — They told me of the Slough of Despond, where 
Christian was well-nigh smothered. They told me that there 
were archers standing ready in Beelzebub Castle to shoot them 
who should knock at the Wicket-Gate for entrance. They told 
me also of the wood and dark mountains ; of the Hill Difficulty ; 
of the lions ; and also of the three giants, — Bloody-Man, Maul, 
and Slay-Good. They said, moreover, that there was a foul fiend 
haunted the Valley of Humiliation ; and that Christian was by 
him almost bereft of life. " Besides," said they, "j^ou must go over 
the Valley of the Shadow of Death, wdiere the hobgoblins are ; 
where the light is darkness ; where the way is full of snares, pits, 
traps, and gins." They told me also of Giant Despair, of Doubt- 
ing Castle, and of the ruin that the pilgrims met with there. 
Further, they said I must go over the Enchanted Ground, which 
was dangerous ; and that, after all this, I should find a river, 
over which there was no bridge ; and that that river did lie 
betwixt me and the Celestial Country. 

Great. — And this was all ? 

Valiant. — No. They also told me that this way was full of 
deceivers, and of persons that lay in wait there to turn good men 
out of the path. 

Great. — But how did they make that out ? 

Valiant. — They told me that Mr. Worldly- Wiseman did lie 
there in wait to deceive. They said, also, that there were For- 
mality and Hypocrisy continually on the road. They said, also, 
that By- Ends, Talkative, or Demas, would go near to gather me 
up ; that the Flatterer would catch me in his net ; or that, with 
green-headed Ignorance, I would presume to go on to the gate, 
from whence he was sent back to the hole that was in the side 
of the hill, and made to go the by-way to hell. 

Great. — I promise you this was enougli to discourage you 5 
but did they make an end there ? 

Valiant. — No: stay. They told me, also, of many that had 
tried that way of old, and that had gone a great way therein to 
see if they could find something of the glory there that so many 



JOHN BUKYAN. 535 

had so mucli talked of from time to time ; and liow tliey came 
back again, and befooled tliemselves for setting afoot out of doors 
in that path, to the satisfaction of all the country. And thej 
named several that did so, as Obstinate and Pliable, Mistrust 
and Timorous, Turn- Away and old Atheist, with several more, 
who, they said, had some of them gone far to see what they could 
find; but not one of them had found so much advantage by going 
as amounted to the weight of a feather. 

Great. — Said they any thing more to discourage you ? 

Valiant. — Yes. They told me of one Mr. Fearing, who was 
a pilgrim ; and how he found his way so solitary, that he never 
had a comfortable hour therein ; also that Mr. Despondency had 
like to have been starved therein ; yea, and also (which I had 
almost forgot) that Christian himself, about whom there has 
been such a noise after all his ventures for a celestial crown, was 
certainly drowned in the Black River, and never went a foot 
farther. However, it was smothered up. 

Great. — And did none of these things discourage you ? 

Valiant. — No : they seemed but as so many nothings to me. 

Great. — How came that about ? 

Valiant. — Why, I still believed what Mr. Tell-Truth had said; 
and that carried me beyond them all. 

Great. — Then this was your victory, — even your faith ? 

Valiant. — It was so, I believed, and therefore came out, got 
into the way, fought all that set themselves against me, and, by 
believing, am come to this place. 

By this time they were got to the Enchanted Ground, where 
the air naturally tended to make one drowsy. And that place 
was all grown over with briers and thorns, excepting here and 
there where was an enchanted arbor, upon which if a man sits, 
or in which if ,a man sleeps, it is a question, some say, whether 
ever he shall rise or wake again in this world. Over this 
forest, therefore, they went, both one and another : and Mr. 
Great-Heart went before, for that he was the guide ; and Mr. 
Valiant-for-Truth came behind, being rear-guard, for fear lest, 
peradventure, some fiend or dragon or giant or thief should fall 
upon their rear, and so do mischief. They went on here, each 
man with his sword drawn in his hand; for they knew it was a 
dangerous place. Also they cheered up one another as well as 
they could. Feeble-Mind, Mr. Great-Heart commanded, should 
come up after him ; and Mr. Despondency was under the eye of 
Mr. Valiant. 

Now, they had not gone far but a great mist and darkness fell 
upon them all, so that they could scarce, for a great while, see 
the one the other. Wherefore they were forced, for some time, 
to feel one for another by words j for they walked not by sight. 



536 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

But any one must tliink that here was but sorry going for the 
best of them all ; but how much worse for the w^omen and chil- 
dren, who both of feet and heart were but tender ! Yet so it 
was, that through the encouraging words of him that led in the 
front, and of him that brought them up behind, they made a 
pretty good shift to wag along. The way also here was very 
wearisome, through dirt and slabbiness. Nor was there, on all 
this ground, so much as one inn or victualing-house wherein to 
refresh the feeble sort. Here, therefore, was grunting and puffing 
and sighing ; while one tmnbleth over a bush, another sticks fast 
in the dirt; and the children, some of them, lost their shoes in 
the mire: while one cries out, "I am. down!" and another, "Ho! 
where are you ? " and a third, " The bushes have got such fast 
hold on me, I think I can not get away from them ! " 

Then they came at an arbor, warm, and promising much refresh- 
ing to the pilgrims ; for it was finely wrought above-head, beauti- 
fied with greens, furnished with benches and settles. It also had 
in it a soft couch, whereon the weary might lean. This you must 
think, all things considered, was tempting; for the pilgrims al- 
ready began to be foiled with the badness of the way : but there 
was not one of them that made so much as a motion to stop there. 
Yea, for aught I could perceive, they continually gave so good 
heed to the advice of their guide, and he did so faithfully tell 
them of dangers, and of the nature of dangers when they were at 
them, that usually, when they were nearest to them, they did most 
pluck up their spirits, and hearten one another to deny the flesh. 
This arbor was called the Slothful's Friend, on purpose to allure, 
if it might be, some of the pilgrims there to take up their rest 
when weary. I saw them in my dream, that they went on in this 
their solitary ground till they came to a place at which a man is 
apt to lose his way. Now, though when it was light their guide 
could well enough tell how to miss those ways that led wrong, yet 
in the dark he was put to a stand. But he had in his pocket a 
map of all ways leading to or from the Celestial City: wherefore 
he struck a light (for he never goes without his tinder-box also), 
and takes a view of his book or map, which bids him to be careful 
in that place to turn to the right hand. And, had he not been 
carefid here to look in his map, they had all, in probability, been 
smothered in the mud; for just a little before them, and that at 
the end of the cleanest way too, was a pit, none knows how deep, 
full of nothing but mud, there made on j)urpose to destroy the 
pilgrims in. 

Then thought I with myself, " Who that goeth on pilgrimage but 
would have one of these maps about him, that he may look when 
he is at a stand which is the way he must take ? " 

Then they went on in this Enchanted Ground till they came to 



JOHN BUNYAN. 537 

where there was another arbor; and it w^as built by the highway- 
side. And in that arbor there lay two men, whose names were 
Heedless and Too-Bold. These two went thus far on pilgrimage, 
but here, being wearied with their journey, sat down to rest them- 
selves, and so fell fast asleep. When the pilgrims saw them, they 
stood still, and shook their heads; for they knew that the sleepers 
were in a pitiful case. Then they consulted what to do, — whether 
to go on and leave them in their sleep ; or to step to them, and try 
to awake them. So they concluded to go to them, and try to awake 
them, — that is, if they could ; but with this caution, — namely, 
to take heed that they themselves did not sit down, nor embrace 
the offered benefit of that arbor. 

So they went in and spake to the men, and called each by his 
name (for the guide, it seems, did know them) ; but there was no 
voice nor answer. Then the guide did shake them, and do what 
he could to disturb them. Then said one of them, "I will pay j^ou 
when I take my money." At which the guide shook his head. 
"I will fight so long as I can hold my sword in my hand," said 
the other. At that one of the children laughed. Then said 
Christiana, " What is the meaning of this ? " The guide said, 
" They talk in their sleep. If you strike them, beat them, or 
whatever else you do to them, the}" will answer you after this 
fashion ; or as one of them said in old time, when the waves of 
the sea did beat upon him, and he slept as one upon the mast of a 
ship, MVhen I awake, I Avill seek it again.' You know, when 
men talk in their sleep, they say any thing; but their words are 
not governed either by faith or reason. There is an incoherency 
in their words now, as there was before betwixt their going on 
pilgrimage and sitting down here. This, then, is the mischief of 
it: When heedless ones go on pilgrimage, 'tis twenty to one but 
they are served thus; for this Enchanted Ground is one of the 
last refuges that the enemy to pilgrims has: wherefore it is, as 
you see, placed almost at the end of the way, and so it standeth 
against us with the more advantage. For 'when,' thinks the ene- 
my, ' will these fools be so desirous to sit down as when they are 
w^eary? and when so like to be Avear}" as when almost at their 
journej^'s end ?' Therefore it is, I say, that the Enchanted Ground 
is placed so nigh to the land Beulah, and so near the end of 
their race. Wherefore let pilgrims look to themselves, lest it 
happen to them as it has done to these, that, as you see, are fallen 
asleep, and none can awake them." 

Then the pilgrims desired, with trembling, to go forward: only 
they prayed their guide to strike a light, that they might go the 
rest of their way by the help of the light of a lantern. So he 
struck a light; and they went, by the help of that, through the rest 
of this w^ay, though the darkness was very great. But the chil- 



538 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

dren began to be sorely weary; and they cried out unto Him that 
loveth pilgrims to make their way more comfortable. So by that 
they had gone a little farther, a wind arose, that drove away the 
fog : so the air became more clear. Yet they were not oif (by much) 
of the Enchanted Ground: only now they could see one another 
better, and the way wlierein they should walk. Now, when, they 
were almost at the end of this ground, they perceived that a little 
before them was a solemn noise, as of one that was much con- 
cerned. So the}'- went on, and looked before them ; and, behold ! 
they saw, as they thought, a man upon his knees, with hands and 
eyes lifted up, and speaking, as they thought, earnestly to one that 
was above. They drew nigh, biit could not tell what he said : so 
they went softly till he liad done. When he had done, he got up, 
and began to run towards the Celestial City. Then Mr, G-reat- 
Heart called after him, sajang, " Soho, friend ! let us have your 
company, if you go, as I suppose you do, 'to the Celestial City." 
So the man stopped, and they came up to him. But, as soon as 
Mr. Honest saw him, he said, " I know this man." Then said 
Mr. Valiant-for-Truth, "Pritliee, who is it?" — "It is one," said 
he, "that comes from whereabout I dwelt. His name is Stand- 
fast : he is certainly a right good pilgrim." 

So they came up one to anotlier. And presently Standfast said 
to Old Honest, " Ho, Father Honest! are you there ? "— " Ay," said 
he, "that I am, as sure as you are there." — "Eight glad am I," 
said Mr. Standfast, " that I have found you on this road." — "And 
as glad am I," said the other, " that I espied you on your knees." 
Then Mr. Standfast blushed, and said, "But why? did 3'ou see 
me?" — " Yes, that I did," quoth the other; "and with my heart 
was glad at the sight." — " Wliy, Avhat did you think ? " said 
Standfast. " Think !" said Old Honest : " what should I think ? 
I thought we had an honest man upon the road, and therefore 
should have his company by and by." — " If you thought not 
amiss," said Standfast, " how happy am I ! But, if I be not as I 
should, 'tis I alone must bear it." — " That is true," said the other: 
"but your fear doth further confirm me that things are right be- 
twixt the Prince of pilgrims and your soul ; for he saith, 'Blessed 
is the man that feareth always.'" 

Valiant. — Well. But, brother, I pray thee tell us what was it 
that was the cause of thy being upon thy knees even now ? Was 
it for that some special mercy laid obligations upon thee, or 
how ? 

Stand. — Wh}^, we are, as you see, upon the Enclianted Ground; 
and, as I was coming along, I was musing with myself of what a 
dangerous nature the road in this place was, and how many that 
had come even this far on pilgrimage had here been stopped and 
been destroyed. I thought^ alsOj of the manner of the death with 



JOHN BUNYAN. 639 

which this place destrojeth men. Those that die here die of no vio- 
lent distemper. The death which such die is not grievous to them : 
for he that goeth away in a sleep begins that journey with desire 
and pleasure ; yea, such acquiesce in the will of that disease. 

Then Mr. Honest, interrupting him, said, ^' Did you see the two 
men asleep in the arbor?" 

Stand. — Ay, ay! I saw Heedless and Too-Bold there; and, 
for aught I know, there they will lie till they rot. But let me go 
on with my tal o. As I was thus musing, as I said, there was one 
in very pleasant attire, but old, who presented herself to me, 
and offered me three things ; to wit, her body, her purse, and her 
bed. Now, the truth is, I was both weary and sleepy : I am also 
as poor as an owlet ; .and that, perhaps, the witch knew. Well, I 
repulsed her once and again ; but she put by my repulses, and 
smiled. Then I began to be angry; but she mattered that nothing 
at all. Then she made offers again, and said, if I would be ruled 
by her, she would make me great and happy. " For," said she, " I 
am the mistress of the world, and men are made happy by me." 
Then I asked her name, and she told me it was Madam Bubble. 
This set me farther from her ; but she still followed me with en- 
ticements. Then I betook me, as j^ou saw, to my knees ; and 
with hands lifted up, and cries, I prayed to Him that had said 
he would help. So, just as you came up, the gentlewoman went 
her way. Then I continued to give thanks for this my great de- 
liverance ; for I verily believe she intended no good, but rather 
soitght to make stop of me in my journey. 

Hon, — Without doubt, her designs were bad. But stay : now 
you talk of her, methinks I either have seen her, or have read 
some story of her. 

Stand. — Perhaps you have done both. 

Hon. — Madam Bubble ! Is she not a tall, comely dame, some- 
thing of a swarthy complexion ? 

Stand. — Bight ! you hit it: she is just such a one. 

Hon. — Doth she not speak very smoothly, and give you a 
smile at the end of a sentence ? 

Stand. — You fall right upon it again; for these are her very 
actions. 

Hon. — Doth she not wear a great purse by her side ? and is 
not her hand often in it, fingering her money, as if that was her 
heart's delight ? 

Stand. — 'Tis just so. Had she stood by all this while, you 
could not more amply have set lier forth before me, nor have bet- 
ter described her features. 

Ho7i. — Then he that drew her picture Avas a good limner, and 
he that wrote of her said true. 

Great. — This woman is a witch; and it is by virtue of her sor- 



540 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

ceries that this ground is enchanted. Whoever doth lay his head 
down in her lap had as good lay it down on that block over which 
the ax doth hang; and whoever lay their eyes upon her beauty 
are counted the enemies of God. This is she that maintaineth in 
their splendor all those that are the enemies of pilgrims; yea, 
this is she that hath bought off many a man from a pilgrim's life. 
She is a great gossiper : she is always, both she and her daugh- 
ters, at one pilgrim's heels or another, now commending, and then 
preferring, the excellences of this life. She is a great, bold, and 
impudent slut : she will talk with any man. She alwaj^s laugh- 
eth poor pilgrims to scorn, but highly commends the rich. If 
there be one cunning to get money in a place, she will speak wellj 
of him from house to house. She loveth banqueting and feasting 
mainly well : she is always at one full table or another. She has 
given it out in some places that she is a goddess ; and therefore 
some do worship her. She has her time and open places of cheat- 
ing; and she will say, and avow it, that none can show a good 
comparable to hers. She promiseth to dwell with children's chil- 
dren if they will but love her and make much of her. She will 
cast out of her purse gold like dust in some places and to some 
persons. She loves to be sought after, spoken well of, and to lie 
in the bosoms of men. She is never weary of commending her 
commodities; and she loves them most that think best of her. She 
will promise to some crowns and kingdoms if they will but take 
her advice ; yet many hath she brought to the halter, and ten 
thousand times more to hell. 

" Oh," said Standfast, " what a mercy is it that I did resist 
her! for whither might she have drawn me?" 

Great. — Wliither? nay, none but God knows whither. But 
in general, to be sure, she would have drawn thee into many 
foolieh and hurtful lusts, which drown men in destruction and 
perdition. 'Twas she that set Absalom against his father, and 
Jeroboam against his master. 'Twas she that persuaded Judas . 
to sell his Lord, and that prevailed with Demas to forsake the i 
godly pilgrim's life. None can tell of the mischief that she doth.j 
She makes variance betwixt rulers and subjects, betwixt parents 
and children, betwixt neighbor and neighbor, betwixt a man and 
his wife, betwixt a man and himself, betwixt the flesh and the 
spirit. Wherefore, good Mr. Standfast, be as your name is ; and, 
when you have done all, stand. 

At this discourse, there was among the pilgrims a mixture of 
joy and trembling; but at length they broke out and sang. 

After this, I beheld until they were come into the land of 
Beulah, where the sun shineth night and day. Here, because they 
were weary, they betook themselves n while to rest. And because 
this country was common for pilgrims, and because the orchards 



JOHN BCTNYAN. 541 

and vineyards that were here belonged to the King of the Celes- 
tial Country, therefore they were licensed to make bold with any 
of his things. Bnt a little while soon refreshed them here : for 
the bells did so ring, and the trumpets continually sound so melo- 
diously, that they could not sleep; and yet they received as much 
refreshing as if they slept their sleep never so soundly. Here, 
also, all the noise of them that walked the streets was, " More 
pilgrims are come to town ! " And another would answer, saying, 
" And so many went over the water, and were let in at the golden 
gates to-day ! '' They would cry again, " There is now a legion of 
shining ones just come to town, by which we know that there are 
more pilgrims upon the road ; for here they come to wait for them, 
and to comfort them after all their sorrow." Then the pilgrims got 
up, and walked to and fro ; but how were their ears now filled 
with heavenly noises, and their eyes delighted with celestial 
visions ! In this land they heard nothing, saw nothing, felt 
nothing, smelt nothing, tasted nothing, that was offensive to their 
stomach or mind : only, when they tasted of the water of the river 
over, which tliey were to go, they thought that it tasted a little 
bitterish to the palate; but it proved sweet when it was down. In 
this place there was a record kept of the names of them that had 
been pilgrims of old, and a history of all the famous acts that 
they had done. It was here also much discoursed how the river 
to some had had its flo wings, and what ebbings it has had while 
others have gone over. It has been in a manner dry for some, 
while it has overflowed its banks for others. In this place the 
children of the town would go into the King's gardens and 
gather nosegays for the pilgrims, and bring them to them with 
much affection. Here, also, grew camphires, with spikenard, and 
saffron, calamus, and cinnamon, with all the trees of frankincense, 
myrrh, and aloes, with all chief spices. With these the pilgrims' 
cliambers were perfumed while they staid here ; and with these 
were their bodies anointed to prepare them to go over the river 
when the time appointed was come. 

Now, while they lay here, and waited for the good hour, there 
was a noise in tlie town that there was a post come from the 
Celestial City, with matter of great importance to one Christiana, 
the wife of Christian the pilgrim. So inquiry was made for her; 
and the house was found out where she was. So the post present- 
ed her with a letter. The contents were, "Hail, good woman ! I 
bring thee tidings that the ]\[aster calleth for thee, and expecteth 
that thou shouldst stand in his presence, in clothes of immortality, 
within these ten days." When he had read this letter to her, he 
gave her therewith a sure token that he was a true messenger, and 
was come to bid her to make haste to be gone. The token was 
an arrow, with a point sharpened with love, let easily into her 



542 EJ?'GLISH LITERATURE. 

heart, which by degrees wrought so effectually with her, that at 
the time appointed she must be gone. 

When Christiana saw that her time was come, and that she was 
the first of this company that was to go over, she called for Mr. 
Great-Heart, her guide, and told him how matters were. So he 
told her he was heartily glad of the news, and could have been 
glad had the post come for him. Then she bid him that he should 
give advice how all things should be prepared for her journey. 
So he told her, saying, " Thus and thus it must be ; and we that 
survive will accompany you to the river-side." Then she called 
for her cliildren, and gave them her blessing, and told them that 
she had read with comfort the mark that was set in their fore- 
lieads, and was glad to see them with her there, and that they 
had kept their garments so white. Lastly, she bequeathed to the 
poor that little she had, and commanded her sons and daughters 
to be ready against the messenger should come for them. When 
she had spoken these words to her guide and to her children, she 
called for Mr. Valiant-for-Truth, and said unto him, "Sir, you 
have in all places showed j^ourself true-hearted : be faithful unto 
death, and my King will give you a crown of life. 

" I would also entreat you to have an ej^e to my children ; and, if 
at any time you see them faint, speak comfortably to them. For 
my daughters, my sons' wives, they have been faithful ; and the ful- 
filling of the promise upon them will be their end." But she gave 
Mr. Standfast a ring. Then she called for old Mr. Honest, and 
said of him, " Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no 
guile!" Then said he, "I wish jo\i a fair day when you set out for 
Mount Sion, and shall be glad to see that you go over the river 
dry-shod." But she answered, " Come wet, come dry, I long to be 
gone ; for, however the weather is in my journey, I shall have time 
enough when I come there to sit down and rest me and dry me." 
Then came in that good man, Mr. Eeady-to-Halt, to see her: so 
she said to him, " Thy travel, hitherto, has been with difficult}^ ; 
but that will make thy rest the sweeter. But watch and be 
ready; for, at an hour when ye think not, the messenger may 
come." After him came Mr. Despondency, and his daughter Much- 
Afraid ; to whom she said, " You ought with thankfulness for ever 
to remember your deliverance from the hands of Giant Despair, 
and out of Doubting Castle. The effect of that mercy is, that 
you are brought with safety hither. Be ye watchful, and cast 
away fear : be sober, and hope to the end." Then she said to 
Mr. Feeble-Mind, '' Thou wast delivered from the mouth of Giant 
Slay-Good, that thou mightest live in the light of the living, and 
see thy King with comfort. Only I advice thee to repent of thine 
aptness to fear, and doubt of his goodness, before he sends for 
thee, lest thou sliouldst, when he comes, be forced to stand 
before him for that fault with blushing." 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 543 

Now the day drew on that. Christiana must be gone. So the 
road was full of people to see her take her journey ; but, behold ! 
all the banks beyond tlie river were full of horses and chariots, 
which were come down from above to accompany her to the city 
gate. So she came forth, and entered the river, with a beckon of 
farewell to those that followed her. The last words that she was 
heard to say were, " I come. Lord, to be with thee and bless 
thee!" So her children and friends returned to their place; for 
those that waited for Christiana had carried her out of their sight. 
So she went and called, and entered in at the gate with all the 
ceremonies of joy that her husband Christian had entered with 
before her. At her departure, the children wept ; but Mr. Great- 
Heart and Mr. Valiant played upon the well-tuned cymbal and 
harp for joy : so all departed to their respective places. In 
process of time, there came a post to the town again ; and his 
business was with ,Mr. E-eady-to-Halt. So he inquired him out, and 
said, " I am come from Him whom thou hast loved and followed, 
though upon crutches ; and my message is to tell thee that he ex- 
pects thee at his table to sup with him in his kingdom the next 
day after Easter : wherefore prepare thj^self for this journey. 
Then he also gave him a token that he was a true messenger ; 
saying, "I have broken thy golden bowl, and loosed thy silver 
cord." 



SAMUEL BUTLER. 

1612-1680. 

The celebrated author of " Hudibras," a witty burlesque of the manners of the 
Puritans. *' What Shakspeare is araoDg English dramatists, Milton among English 
epic poets, Bunyan among English allegorists, Butler is among the waters of 
English burlesque, — prhice and paramount." 



DESCRIPTION OF HUDIBRAS. 

When civil dudgeon first grew high, 
And men fell out, they knew not why ; 
When hard words, jealousies, and fears, 
Set folks together by the ears ; 
When gospel-trumpeter, surrounded 
With long-eared rout, to battle sounded ; 
And pulpit, drum ecclesiastic, 
Was beat with fist instead of a stick, — 
Tlien did Sir Knight abandon dwelling, 
And out he rode a-colonelling. 



644 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

A wight he was, whose very sight would 
Entitle him mirror of knighthood; 
That never bowed his stubborn knee 
To any thing but chivahy, 
Nor put up blow but that which laid 
Right worshipful on shoulder-blade. 
But here some authors make a doubt 
Whether he were more wise or stout : 
Some hold the one, and some the other. 
But, howsoe'er they make a pother, 
The ilifference was so small, his brain 
Outweighed his rage but half a grain ; 
Which made some take him for a tool 
That knaves do work with, called a fool. 
We grant, although he had much wit, 
He was very shy of using it, 
As being loath to Avear it out. 
And therefore bore it not about, 
Unless on holidays or so. 
As men their best apparel do. 
Besides, 'tis known he could speak Greek 
As naturally as pigs do squeak ; 
That Latin was no more difficile 
Than to a blackbird 'tis to whistle. 

He was in logic a great critic, 
Profoundly skilled in analytic : 
He could distingui>h and divide 
A hair 'twixt south and south-west side ; 
On either which he would dispute. 
Confute, change hands, and still confute. 
He'd undertake to prove by force 
Of argument a man's no horse ; 
He'd prove a buzzard is no fowl. 
And that a lord may be an owl, 
A calf an alderman, a goose a justice, 
And rooks committee-men and trustees. 
He'd run in debt by disputation. 
And pay with ratiocination. 
All this by syllogism true. 
In mood and figure, he would do. 
For rhetoric, he could not ope 
His mouth, but out there flew a trope: 
And when he happened to break off 
In the middle of his speech, or cough. 
He had hard words ready to show why, 
. And tell what rules he did it by ; 
Else, when with greatest art he spoke, 
You'd think he talked like other folk ; 
For all a rhetorician's rules 
Teach nothing but to name his tools. 
But, when he pleased to show't, his speech. 
In loftiness of sound, was rich ; 



SAMUEL BUTLEE. 545 

A Babylonish dialect, 

Which learned pedants much affect : 

It was a party-colored dress 

Of patched and piebald languages ; 

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin, 

Like fustian heretofore on satin ; 

It had an odd, promiscuous tone. 

As if he had talked three parts in one ; 

AVhich made some think, when he did gabble, 

They had heard three laborers of Babel, 

Or Cerberus himself pronounce 

A leash of languages at once. 

Tliis he as volubly would vent 

As if his stock would ne'er be spent. 

And truly, to support that charge, 

lie had supplies as vast and large ; 

For he could coin or counterfeit 

New Avords with little or no wit, — 

Words so debased and hard, no stone 

AVas hard enough to touch them on ; 

And, when with hasty noise he spoke 'em, 

The ignorant for current took 'em ; 

That had the orator, who once 

Did fill his mouth with pebble-stones 

When he harangued, but known his phrase, 

He would have used no other ways. 

In mathematics he was greater 
Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater : 
For he by geometric scale 
Could take the size of pots of ale ; 
Resolve by sines and tangents straight 
If bread or butter wanted weight ; 
And wisely tell what hour o' the day 
The clock does strike, by algebra. 

Besides, he was a shrewd philosopher. 
And had read every text and gloss over : 
Whate'er the crabbed'st author hath, 
He understood by implicit faith ; 
Whatever skeptic could inquire for, 
For every why he had a wherefore ; 
Knew more than forty of them do. 
As far as words and terms coukl go ; 
All which he understood by rote. 
And, as occasion served, would quote ; 
No matter whether right or wrong ; 
They might be either said or sung. 
His notions fitted things so well. 
That which was which he could not tell. 
But oftentimes mistook the one 
For the other, as great clei'ks have done. 
He could reduce all things to acts. 
And knew their natures by abstracts, — 
35 



54G ENGLISH LITEBATUEE. 

Where entity and quiddity, 

The ghosts of defunct bodies, fly; 

Where Truth in person does a]>pear, 

Like words congealed in northern air. 

He knew Avhat's what, and that's as high 

As metaphysic wit can fly. 

He could raise scruples dark and nice, 

And, after, solve 'em in a trice, 

As if Divinity had catched 

The itch on purpose to be scratched ; 

Or, like a mountebank, did wound 

And stab herself with doubts profound. 

Only to show with how small pain 

The sores of faith are cured again; 

Although, by Avoeful proof, we find 

They always leave a scar behind. 

For his religion, it was fit 
To match his learning and his wit : 
'Twas Presbyterian true blue ; 
For he Avas of that stubborn crew 
Of errant saints whom all men grant 
To be the true Church militant ; 
Such as do build their faith upon 
The holy text of pike and gun, 
Decide all controversies by 
Infallible artillery. 
And prove their doctrine orthodox 
By apostolic blows and knocks ; 
Call fire and sword and desolation 
A godly, thorough reformation, 
Which always must be carried on, 
And still be doing, never done : 
As if religion were intended 
For nothing else but to be mended 1 
A sect whose chief devotion lies 
In odd, perverse antipathies ; 
In falling out with that or this, 
And finding somewhat still amiss ; 
More peevish, cross, and splenetic 
Than dog distract, or monkey sick; 
That with more care keep holy-day 
The wrong than others the right way ; 
Compound for sins they are inclined to 
By damning those they have no mind to. 
Still to perverse and opposite. 
As if they worshiped God for spite, 
The self-same thing they will abhor 
One way, and long another for. 
Free-will they one way disavow ; ' 

Another, nothing else allow. 
All piety consists therein 
In them ; in other men, all sin. 



OTHER WRITERS OF DISTINCTION. 547 

Rather than fail, they will decry 

That which they love most tenderly ; 

Quarrel with mince-pies, and disparage 

Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge : 

Fat pig and goose itself oppose, 

And blaspheme custard through the nose. 

His doublet was of sturdy buff; 
And though not sword, yet cudgel-proof; 
Whereby 'twas fitter for his use. 
Who feared no blows but such as bruise. 

His breeches were of rugged woolen, 
And had been at the siege of BuUen ; 
To old King Harry so well known. 
Some writers held they were his own; 
Though they were lined with many a piece 
Of ammunition bread and cheese. 
And fat black-puddings, — proper food 
For warriors that delight in blood : 
For, as we said," he always chose 
To carry victuals in his hose, 
That often tempted rats and mice 
The ammunition to surprise ; 
And, when he put a hand but in 
The one or t'other magazine, 
They stoutly on defense on't stood, 
And from the wounded foe drew blood. 



OTHER WRITERS OE DISTINCTION 

John Locke, — 1632-1704. Author of "An Essay concerning Human Under- 
standing," " Thoughts concerning Education," and other philosophical essays. 

Richard Baxter. — 1615-1691. "The Saints' Everlasting Rest," "A Call to 
the Unconverted," and " A Narrative of his Own Life and Times." 

Wextworth Dillon. — 1634 -1685. " An Essay on Translated Verse." 

Charles Sackville. — 1637-1705. A few songs. Patron of Butler and 
Dryden. 

Charles Sedley. — 1639 -1701. Plays and spirited songs. 

John Wilmot. — 1647-1680. Writer of songs. 

Thomas Otway. — 1651-1685. " Venice Preserved," a play; " The Orphan." 

Matthew Prior. — 1664-1721. "The Town and Country Mouse," "Solo- 
mon." 

John Phillips. — 1676-1708. "The Splendid Shilling," — attempt to parody 
Milton. 

Henry Moore. — 1614-1687. "The Mystery of Godliness," " Immortality of 
the Soul." 

John Owen. — 1616-1683. " Exposition of Hebrews," " Divine Original of the 
Scriptures." 



548 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Edward Stillingfleet. — 1635 -1699. Sermons, and several essays. 

Thomas Buk^'et. — 1635-1715. "The State of the Dead and Reviving," and 
others. 

Thomas Sprat. — 1636-1713. " Histoiy of the Royal Society," " An Account 
of the Rye-house Plot." 

Lady Rachel Russell,. " Letters." 

William Wycherley. — 1640-1715. Writer of comedies. 

WiLLLVM Sherlock. — 1641-1707. "On the Immortality of the Soul," and 
several works against dissenters. 

Gilbert Burnet. — 1643-1715. "History of the Reformation," "History of 
My Own Times," and " The Thirty-nine Articles." 

John Strype. — 1643-1737. Several religious works. 

William Penx. — 1644-1718. Distinguished Quaker. " No Cross, no Crown ; " 
"The Conduct of Life; " and " A Brief Account of the People called Quakers." 

Robert Barclay. — 1648-1690. "Apology." 

Matthew Henry. — 1662 -1714. Unfinished " Commentary'- on the Bible." 

Richard Bentley. — 1662 -1742. Celebrated editor of the classics. 

Sir John Vaubrug. — 1666-1726. " The Provoked Wife," and other plays. 

John Arbuthnot. — 1667-1735. " History of .John Bull," " Scolding of the 
Ancients," " Art of Political Lying," and much of " Martinus Scriblerus " in Pope's 
works. 

William Congreve. — 1670-1729. "The Mourning Bride," a tragedy; and 
several comedies. 

George Farquhar. — 1678-1708. "The Recruiting Officer," " The Beau's 
Stratagem," and others. 



JOHN MILTOK 

1608-1674. 

Author of " Paradise Lost," the only great original epic in the English language, 
"Paradise Regained," " Ode on the Nativity," "L' Allegro," "11 Penseroso," ''Ar- 
cades," "Comus," and "Lycidas." "The Areopagitica," and other prose-works, 
are worthy of the great secretary' of Cromwell. 



PARADISE LOST. 

Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit 
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste 
Brought death into the world, and all our woe, 
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man 
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat, 
Sing, heavenly Muse ! that on the secret top 
Of Oreb or of Sinai didst inspire 
That shepherd who first taught the chosen seed 
In the beginning how the heavens and earth 
Rose out of chaos. Or if Sion hill 



JOHN MILTON. 549 

Delight tliee more, and Siloa's brook that flowed 
Fast by the oracle of God, I thence 
Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song, 
That with no middle flight intends to soar 
Above the Aonian mount, while it pursues 
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme. 
And chiefly thou, O Spirit ! that dost prefer 
Before all temples the upright heart and pure, 
Instruct me ; for thou know'st : thou from the first 
Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread, 
Dovelike sat'st brooding on the vast abyss, 
And mad'st it pregnant. What in me is dark, 
Ilhimine ; what is low, raise and support ; 
That to the hight of this great argument 
I may assert Eternal Providence, 
And justify the ways of God to men. 

Say first (for heaven hides nothing from thy view. 
Nor the deep tract of hell), — say first, what cause 
Moved our grand parents in that happy state, 
Favored of Heaven so highly, to fall off 
From their Creator, and transgress his will 
For one restraint, lords of the world besides ? 
Who first seduced them to that foul revolt ? 
The infernal Serpent : he it was whose guile, 
Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived 
The mother of mankind, what time his pride 
Had cast him out from heaven with all his host 
Of rebel angels : by whose aid, aspiring 
To set himself in glory 'bove his peers, 
He trusted to have equaled the Most High 
If he opposed, and, with ambitious aim. 
Against the throne and monarchy of God 
Raised impious war in heaven, and battle proud 
With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power 
Hurled headlong flaming from the ethereal sky 
With hideous ruin and combustion, down 
To bottomless pei'dition, there to dwell 
In adamantine chains and penal fire, 
Who durst defy the Omnipotent to arms. 
Nine times the space that measures day and night 
To mortal men, he with his horrid crew 
Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf. 
Confounded, though immortal. But his doom 
Reserved him to more wrath ; for noAv the thought 
Both of lost happiness and lasting pain 
Torments him. Round he throws his baleful eyes. 
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay. 
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfiist hate. 
At once, as far as angel's ken, he views 
The dismal situation waste and wild : 
A dungeon horrible on all sides round 
As one great furnace flamed ; yet from those flames 



550 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

No light, but rather darkness visible, 

Served only to discover sights of woe. 

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace 

And rest can never dwell ; hope never comes, 

That comes to all; but torture without end 

Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed 

With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed. 

Such place Eternal Justice had prepared 

For those rebellious ; here their prison ordained 

In utter darkness, and their portion set 

As far removed from God and light of heaven 

As from the center thrice to the utmost pole. 

Oh, how unlike the place from whence they fell ! 

There the companions of his fall, o'erwhelmed 

With floods and whirlwinds of tempestuous fire, 

He soon discerns ; and, weltering by his side, 

One next himself in power, and next in crime, 

Long after known in Palestine, and named 

Beelzebub. To whom the Arch-Enemy, 

And thence in heaven called Satan, with bold -words 

Breaking the horrid silence, thus began : — 

" If thou beest he — but, oh, how fallen, bow changed. 
From him, who, in the happy realms of light, 
Clothed with transcendent brightness, didst outshine 
Myriads though bright ! — if he whom mutual league. 
United thoughts and counsels, equal hope 
And hazard in the glorious enterprise. 
Joined with me once, now misery hath joined 
In equal ruin : into what pit thou seest 
From what hight fallen, so much the stronger proved 
He with his thunder ; and till then who knew 
The force of those dire arms ? Yet not for those. 
Nor what the potent victor in his rage 
Can else inflict, do I repent or change. 
Though changed in outward luster, that fixed mind 
And high disdain from sense of injured merit, 
That with the Mightiest raised me to contend, 
And to the fierce contention brought along 
Innumerable force of spirits armed, 
That durst dislike his reign, and, me preferring, 
His utmost power with adverse power opposed 
In dubious battle on the plains of heaven, 
And shook his throne. What though the field be lost ? 
All is not lost : the unconquerable will, 
And study of revenge, immortal hate, 
And courage never to submit or yield ; 
And what is else not to be overcome : 
That glory never shall his wrath or might 
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace 
With suppliant knee, and deify his power. 
Who from the terror of this arm so late 
Doubted his empire, — that were low indeed I 



JOHN MILTON. 551 

That were an ignominy and shame beneath 
This downfall ! since bj fate the strength of gods 
And this empyreal substance can not fail ; 
Since through experience of this great event 
In arms not worse, in foresight much advanced, 
We may with more successful hope resolve 
To wage by force or guile eternal war, 
Irreconcilable to our grand foe, 
Who now triumphs, and, in the excess of joy 
Sole reigning, holds the tyranny of heaven." 

So spake the apostate Angel, though in pain, 
Vaunting aloud, but racked with deep despair ; 
And him thus answered soon his bold compeer : — 

O Prince, O Chief of many throned powers, 
That led the embattled seraphim to war 
Under thy conduct, and, in dreadful deeds 
Fearless, endangered heaven's perpetual King, 
And put to proof his high supremacy, 
Whether upheld by strength or chance or fate ! 
Too well I see and rue the dire event, 
That with sad overthrow and foul defeat 
Hath lost us heaven, and all this mighty host 
In horrible destruction laid thus low, 
As far as gods and heavenly essences 
Can perish ; for the mind and spirit remains 
Invincible, and vigor soon returns, 
Though all our glory extinct, and happy state 
Here SAvallowed up in endless misery. 
But what if He, our conqueror (whom I now 
Of force believe almighty, since no less 
Than such could have overpowered such force as ours), 
Have left us this our spirit and strength entire, 
Strongly to suffer, and support our pains, . 
That we may so suffice his vengeful ire, 
Or do him mightier service as his thralls 
By right of war, whate'er his business be 
Here in the heart of hell to work in fire. 
Or do his errands in the gloomy deep ? 
What can it then avail, though yet we feel 
Strength undiminished, or eternal being 
To undergo eternal punishment V " 
Whereto with speedy words the Arch-Fiend replied : — 

" Fallen cherub, to be Aveak is miserable, 
Doing or suffering ; but of this be sure, — 
To do aught good never will be our task. 
But ever to do ill our sole delight. 
As being the contrary to His high will 
Whom we resist. If, then, bis providence 
Out of our evil seek to bring forth good, 
Our labor must be to pervert that end, 
And out of good still to find means of evil ; 
Which ofttimes may succeed, so as perhaps 



562 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Shall grieve him, if I fail not, and disturb 

His inmost counsels from their destined aim. 

But see ! the angry victor hath recalled 

His ministers of vengeance and pursuit 

Back to the gates of lieaven : the sulphurous hail, 

Shot after us in storm, o'erblown hath laid 

The fiery surge, that from the precipice 

Of heaven received us falling ; and the thunder, 

Winged with red lightning and impetuous rage, 

Perhaps hath spent his shafts, and ceases now 

To bellow through the vast and boundless deep. 

Let us not slip the occasion, whether scorn 

Or satiate fury yield it from our foe. 

Seest thou yon dreary plain, forlorn and wild, 

The seat of desolation, void of light 

Save what the glimmering of these livid flames 

Casts pale and dreadful ? Thither let us tend 

From off the tossing of these fiery waves ; 

There rest, if any rest can harbor there ; 

And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, 

Consult how we may henceforth most offend 

Our enemy, our own loss how repair, 

How overcome this dire calamity ; 

AVhat re-enforcement we may gain from hope ; 

If not, what resolution from despair." 

Thus Satan, talking to his nearest mate 
With head uplift above the wave, and eyes 
That sparkling blazed ; his other parts besides 
Prone on the flood, extended long and large, 
Lay floating many a rood, in bulk as huge 
As whom the fables name of monstrous size, — 
Titanian, or earth-born, that warred on Jove, 
Briareos, or Typhon, whom the den 
By ancient Tarsus held ; or that sea-beast. 
Leviathan, which God of all his works 
Createst hugest that swim the ocean-stream : 
Him haply slumbering on the Korway foam. 
The pilot of some small night-foundered skiff 
Deeming some island, oft, as seamen tell, 
With fixed anchor in his scaly rind 
Moors by his side under the lea, while night 
Invests the sea, and wished morn delays : 
So, stretched out huge in length, the Arch-Fiend lay 
Chained on the burning lake ; nor ever thence 
Had risen or heaved his head but that the will 
And high permission of all-ruling Heaven 
Left him at large to his own dark designs, 
That with reiterated crimes he might 
Heap on himself damnation while he sought 
Evil to others, and enraged might see 
How all his malice served but to bring forth 
Infinite goodness, grace, and mercy shown 



JOHN MILTON, 553 

On man, by liim seduced ; but on himself 

Treble contusion, wrath, and vengeance poured. 

Forthwith uprioht he rears from off the pool 

His mighty stature : on each hand the flames. 

Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and, rolled " 

In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale. 

Then with expanded wings he steers his flight 

Aloft, incumbent on the dusky air, 

That felt unusual weight ; till on dry land 

He lights, if it were land that ever burned 

With solid, as the lake with liquid, fire ; 

And such appeared in hue as when the force 

Of subterranean wind transports a hill 

Torn from Pelorus, or the shattered side 

Of thundering ^tna, whose combustible 

And fueled entrails thence conceiving fire, 

Sublimed with mineral fury, aid the winds, 

And leave a singed bottom all involved 

With stench and smoke : such resting found the sole 

Of unblest feet. Him followed his next mate. 

Both glorying to have 'scaped the Stygian flood 

As gods, and by their own recovered strength, 

Not by the sufferance of Supernal Power. 

" Is this the region, this the soil, the clime,'' 
Said then the lost Arch-Angel, " this the seat. 
That we must change for heaven ? this mournful gloom 
For that celestial light ? Be it so, since He 
Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid 
What shall be right : farthest from Him is best, 
Whom reason hath equalled, foi'ce hath made supreme 
Above his equals. Farewell, hnppy fields, 
Where joy for ever dwells ! hail, horrors ! hail. 
Infernal world ! and thou profoundest Hell, 
Receive thy new possessor, — one who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or time. 
The mind is its own place, and in itself 
Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven. 
What matter where, if I be still the same, 
And what I should be, — all but less than He 
Whom thunder hath made greater ? Here, at least, 
We shall be free. The Almighty hath not built 
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence. 
Here we may reign secure ; and in my choice 
To reign is worth ambition, though in hell : 
Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven ! 
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, 
The associates and copartners of our loss. 
Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool. 
And call them not to share with us their part 
In this unhappy mansion, or once more 
AVith rallied arms to try what may be yet 
Regained in heaven, or what more lost in hell ? ** 



554 ENGLISH LITERATUBE, 

So Satan spake ; and him Beelzebub 
Thus answered : " Leader of those armies bright, 
Which but the Omnipotent none could have lolled, 
If once they hear that voice, their liveliest pledge 
Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft 
In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge 
Of battle when it raged, in all assaults 
Tlieir surest signal, they will soon resume 
New courage, and revive, though now they lie 
Groveling and prostrate on yon lake of fire, 
As we erewhile, astounded and amazed, — 
No wonder, fallen such a pernicious hight." 

He scarce had ceased when the superior Fiend 
Was moving toward the shore. His ponderous shield. 
Ethereal temper, massy, large, and round. 
Behind him cast : the broad circumference 
Hung on his shoulders like the moon, whose orb 
Through optic glass the Tuscan artist views 
At evening from the top of Fesole, 
Or in Valdarno, to descry new lands, 
Rivers, or mountains, on her spotty globe. 
His spear, to equal Avhich the tallest pine 
Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast 
Of some great ammiral were but a wand, 
He walked with to support uneasy steps 
Over the burning marl ; not like those steps 
On Heaven's azure : and the ton-id clime 
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with fire. 
Nathless he so endured, till on the beach 
Of that inflamed sea he stood, and called 
His legions, angel-forms, who lay entranced 
Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks 
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades 
High overarched emboAver ; or scattered sedge 
Afloat, when with fierce winds Orion armed 
Hath vexed the Red-sea coast, whose waves o'erthrew 
Busiris and his Memphian chivalry, 
While with perfidious hatred they pursued 
The sojourners of Goshen, who beheld 
From the safe shore their floating carcasses 
And broken chariot-wheels : so thick bestrewn, 
Abject and lost, lay these, covering the flood, 
Under amazement of their hideous change. 
He called so loud, that all the hollow deep 
Of hell resounded : " Princes, potentates, 
Warriors, the flower of heaven, once yours, now lost ! 
If such astonishment as this can seize 
Eternal spirits ; or have ye chosen this place 
After the toil of battle to repose 
Your wearied virtue, for the case you find 
To slumber here as in the vales of heaven ? 
Or in this abject posture have ye sworn 



JOHN MILTON. 655 

To adore the conqueror ? who now beholds 
Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood 
With scattered arms and ensigns, till anon 
His swift pursuers from heaven-gates discern 
The advantage, and, descending, tread us down 
Thus drooping, or with linked thunderbolts 
Transfix us to the bottom of this gulf. 
Awake ! arise ! or be for ever fallen ! " 

They heard, and were abashed ; and up they sprang 
Upon the wing, as when men wont to watch 
On duty, sleeping found by whom they dread, 
Rouse and bestir themselves ere well awake. 
Nor did they not perceive the evil plight 
In which they were, or the fierce pains not feel ; 
Yet to their general's voice they soon obeyed 
Innumerable. As when the potent rod 
Of Amram's son, in Egypt's evil day 
Waved round the coast, upcalled a pitchy cloud 
Of locusts, warping on the eastern wind. 
That o'er the realm of impious Pharaoh hung 
Like night, and darkened all the land of Kile : 
So numberless were those bad angels seen 
Hovering on wing under the cope of hell 
'Twixt upper, nether, and surrounding fires ; 
Till, as a signal given, the uplifted spear 
Of their great sultan waving to direct 
Their course, in even balance down they light 
On the firm brimstone, and fill all the plain, — 
A multitude like which the populous north 
Poured never from her frozen loins to pass 
Rhene or the Danaw when her barbarous sons 
Came like a deluge on the south, and spread 
Beneath Gibraltar to the Libyan sands. 
Forthwith from every squadron and each band 
The heads and leaders thither haste where stood 
Their great commander ; godlike shapes and forms 
Excelling human, princely dignities. 
And powers that erst in heaven sat on thrones, 
Though of their names in heavenly records now 
Be no memorial, blotted out and rased 
By their rebellion from the books of life. 
Nor had they yet among the sons of Eve 
Got them new names, till Avandering o'er the earth, 
Through God's high sufferance for the trial of man, 
By falsities and lies the greatest part 
Of mankind they corrupted, to forsake 
God their Creator, and the invisible 
Glory of Him that made them to transform 
Oft to the image of a brute, adorned 
With gay religions full of pomp and gold. 
And devils to adore for deities : 
Then were they known to men by various names, 



556 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

And vpj'ious idols tlirouirh tlie heathen Avorld. 

Say, Muse, their names then known, who first, who last, 

Housed from the slumber on that fiery couch 

At their great emperor's call, as next in worth 

Came singly where he stood on the bare strand, 

While the promiscuous crowd stood yet aloof? 

The chief were those who from the pit of hell, 

Roaming to seek their prey on earth, durst fix 

Their seats long after next the seat of God, 

Their altars by his altar, gods adored 

Among the nations round ; and durst abide 

Jehovali thundering out of Sion, throned 

Between the cherubim ; yea, often placed 

Within his sanctuary itself their shrines. 

Abominations, and with cursed things 

His holy rites and solemn feasts profaned, 

And with their darkness durst affront his light. 

First Moloch, horrid king, besmeared with blood 

Of human sacrifice and parents' tears. 

Though for the noise of drums and timbrels loud 

Their children's cries unheard, that passed through fire 

To his grim idol. Him the Ammonite 

Worshiped in Rabba and her watery plain, 

In Argob and in Basan, to the stream 

Of utmost Arnon. Nor content with such 

Audacious neighborhood, the wisest heart 

Of Solomon he led by fraud to build 

His temple right against the temple of God 

On that opprobrious hill, and made his grove 

The pleasant vale of Hinnom, Tophet thence 

And black Gehenna called, the type of hell. 

Next Chemos, the obscene dread of Moab's sons 

From Aroar to Nebo and the wild 

Of southmost Abarim ; in Hesebon 

And Horonaim, Seon's realm, beyond 

The flowery dale of Sibma clad with vines, 

And Eleale to the Asphaltic pool. 

Peor his other name, when he enticed 

Israel in Sittim, on their march from Nile, 

To do him wanton rites which cost them Avoe. 

Yet thence his lustful orgies he enlarged 

E'en to that hill of scandal by the grove 

Of Moloch homicide, — lust hard by hate, — 

Till good Josiah drove them thence to hell. 

With these came they, who, from the bordering flood 

Of old Euphrates to the brook that parts 

Eixypt from Syrian ground, had general names 

Of Baalim and Ashtaroth : those male. 

These feminine ; for spirits, Avhen they please. 

Can either sex assume, or both ; so soft 

And uncompounded is their essence pure. 

Not tied nor manacled with joint or limb, 



JOHN MILTOK 657 

Nor founded on the brittle strength of bones, 

Like cumbrous flesh ; but in what shape they choose, 

Dilated or condensed, bright or obscure, 

Can execute their airy purposes. 

And works of love or enmity fulfill. 

For those the race of Israel oft forsook 

Their living Strength, and unfrequented left 

His righteous altar, bowing lowly down 

To bestial gods ; for which their heads, as low 

Bowed down in battle, sank before the spear 

Of despicable foes. With these in troop 

Came Astoreth, whom the Phoenicians called 

Astarte, queen of heaven, with crescent horns; 

To wdiose bright iihage nightly by the moon 

Sidonian virgins paid their vows and songs : 

In Sion also not unsung, where stood 

Her temple on the offensive mountain, built 

By that uxorious king, whose heart, though large, 

Beguiled by fair idolatresses, fell 

To idols foul. Thammuz came next behind, 

Whose annual wound in Lebanon allured 

The Syrian damsels to lament his fite 

In amorous ditties all a summer's day ; 

While smooth Adonis from his native rock 

Ran purple to the sea, supposed with blood 

Of Thammuz yearly wounded. The love-tale 

Infected Sion's daughters with like heat ; 

Whose wanton passions in the sacred porch 

Ezekiel saw, when, by the vision led, 

His eye surveyed the dark idolatries 

Of alienated Judah. Next came one 

Who mourned in earnest Avhen the captive ark 

Maimed his brute image, head and hands lopped off 

In his own temple, on the grunsel edge, 

Where he fell flat, and shamed his worshipers : 

Dagon his name, sea-monster, — upward man, 

And dowuAvard fish ; yet had his temple high 

Reared in Azotus, dreaded through the coast 

Of Palestine, in Gath and Ascalon 

And Accaron, and Gaza's frontier bounds. 

Him folloAved Rimmon, whose delightful seat 

Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks 

Of Abana and Pharpar, lucid streams. 

He also 'gainst the house of God was bold : 

A leper once he lost, and gained a king ; 

Ahaz his sottish conqueror, whom he drew 

God's altar to disparaore and displace 

For one of Syrian mode, whereon to burn 

His odious offerings, and adore the gods 

Whom he had vanquished. After these appeared 

A crew, who, under names of old renown, — 

Osiris, Iris, Orus, and their train, — 



558 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 

With monstrous shapes and sorceries abused 
Fanatic Egypt and her priests to seek 
Their wandering gods disguised in brutish forms 
Kather than human. 



OTHER DISTINQUISHED AUTHORS OF 
MILTOK'S TIME. 

Thomas Fuller. — 1608-1661. Witty divine. " Church History of Britain; " 
"Worthies of England;" essays, tracts, and sermons. 

Jeremy Taylor. — 1613 -1667. Brilliant writer of sermons and essays. 

Edward Hyde (Earl of Clarendon). — 1608-1674. "History of the Rebellion," 
and other works. 

Sir William Davenant. — 1605-1668. Succeeded Ben Jonson as laureate. 

Edmund Waller. — 1605-16S7. Poet and politician. 

Henry Vaughn. — 1621-1695. Devotional poems. Thomas, his brother, wrote 
books on alchemy. 

Sir John Denham. — 1615-1668. *' Cooper's Hill," a local poem. 

EiciiARD Lovelace. — 1618-1658. Odes and songs. 

Abraham Cowley. — 1618-1667. "Miscellanies," " Pindai'ic Odes," and 
"Love Verges." 

William Ciiamberlayne. — 1619 -1689. " Love's Victory," " Pharounida." 

Charles Cotton. — 1630 -1687. Witty poet-friend of Izaak Walton. 

John Gauden. — 1605-1662. "Eikon Basilika; or, Portraiture of his Most 
Sacred Majesty, Charles L, in his Solitude and Sufierings." 

Sir Thomas Browne. — 1605-1682. " Religio Medici," "Pseudodoxia Epi- 
demica." 

Ralph Cudworth. — 1617-1688. "The True Intellectual System of the Uni- 
vei'se," '• Eternal and Immutable Morality," and others. 

John Evelyn. — 1620 -1706. " Sylva," " Tessa," and " Diary." 

Andrew Marvel. — 1620-1678. " Popery and Arbitrary Government in Eng- 
land." The friend of Milton. 

Algernon Sidney. — 1621-1683. "Discourses on Government," in opposition 
to the doctrine of the divine right of kings. 

Robert Boyle. — 1627-1691. Distinguished philosopher. " Occasional Reflec- 
tions on Several Subjects." 

Sir William Temple. — 1628-1699. Accomplished diplomatist, and elegant 
writer of the English language. " Essays." 

John Ray. — 1628-1705. "General History of Plants," and "Wisdom of God 
in the Works of Creation." 

John Tillotson.— 1630-1694. "Sermons." 

Isaac Barrow. — 1630-1677. Mathematical works in Latin, and theological in 
English. 

Samuel Pepys. — Died 1703. "Diary." 

Robert South. —1633-1716. Witty divine; fierce upholder of the doctrines of 
passive obedience and divine right. 



FBAKCIS BACON. 559 

FRxllSrCIS BACOjST, VISOOITNT ST. ALBAN'S. 

1561-1626. 

His " Essays " and " Advancement of Learning " were written in English. The 
"Novum Organura," his greatest work, explains the inductive method of reasoning, 
— that is, from particular facts to general laws, — and for the first time places all 
philosophy upon its ti'ue basis. Upon this work, which was a part of a magnificent 
inexfecuted plan, rests his immortal fame. 



STUDIES. 

Studies serve for deliglit, for ornament, and for ability. Their 
cliief use for delight is in privateness and retiring, for ornament 
is in discourse, and for ability is in the judgment and disposition 
of business : for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of 
particulars, one by one ; but the general counsels, and the plots 
and marshaling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. 
To spend too much time in studies is sloth; to use them too 
much for ornament is affectation; to make judgment wholly by 
their rules is the humor of a scholar. They perfect Nature, and 
are perfected by experience : for natural abilities are like natural 
plants, that need pruning by study; and studies themselves do 
give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in 
by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire 
them, and wise men use them ; for they teach not their own use : 
but that is a wisdom without them, and above them, won by ob- 
servation. Kead not to contradict and confute, nor to believe and 
take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and 
consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, 
and some few to be chewed and digested : that is, some books are 
to be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and 
some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. 
Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of 
them by others : but that would be only in the less important 
arguments, and the meaner sort of books ; else distilled books are, 
like common distilled waters, flashy things. Reading maketh a 
full man, conference a readj^ man, and writing an exact man : 
and therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great 
memory ; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit ; and, 
if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to 
know that he doth not. 



560 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



OF BOLDNESS. 

It is a trivial grammar-school text, but j^t worthy a wise man's 
consideration. The question was asked of Demosthenes, " What 
is the chief part of an orator?" He answered, "Action." What 
next? "Action." What next again? "Action." He said it 
that knew it best, and had by nature himself no advantage in 
that he commended. A strange thing, that that part of an 
orator which is but superficial, and rather the virtue of a player, 
should be placed so high above those other noble parts of inven- 
tion, elocution, and the rest ; nay, almost alone, as if it were all 
in all! But the reason is plain: there is in human nature gener- 
ally more of the fool than of the wise ; and therefore those facul- 
ties by which the foolish part of men's minds is taken are most 
potent. Wonderful like is the case of boldness in civil business. 
What first? "Boldness." Wliat second and third? "'Bold- 
ness." And yet boldness is a child of ignorance and baseness, 
far inferior to other parts; but, nevertheless, it doth fascinate, and 
bind hand and foot, those that are either shallow in judgment, or 
weak in courage, which are the greatest part ; yea, and prevaileth 
with wise men at weak times : therefore we see it hath done won- 
ders in popular states, but with senates and princes less ; and 
more ever upon the first entrance of bold persons into action 
than soon after; for boldness is an ill keeper of promise. Surely, 
as there are mountebanks for the natural bod 7, so are there 
mountebanks for the politic body, — men that undertake great 
cures, and perhaps have been lucky in two or three experiments, 
but want the grounds of science, and therefore can not hold out. 
Nay, you shall see a bold fellow many times do Mahomet's miracle. 
Mahomet made the people believe that he would make the hill 
come to him, and from the top of it offer up his prayers for the 
observers of his law. The people assembled. Mahomet called the 
hill to come to him again and again ; "and, when the hill stood still, 
he was never a whit abashed, but said, "If the hill will not come 
to Mahomet, Mahomet will go to the hill." So these men, when they 
have promised great matters, and failed most shamefully, yet (if 
they have the perfection 'of boldness) thej^ will but slight it over, 
and make a turn, and no more ado. Certainly, to men of great 
judgment, bold persons are sport to behold ; nay, and to the vulgar, 
also, boldness hath somewhat of the ridiculous: for, if absurdity 
be the subject of laughter, doubt you not that great boldness is sel- 
dom without some absurdity. Especially it is a sport to see when 
a bold fellow is out of countenance, for that puts his face into a 
most shrunken and wooden posture, as needs it must : for in bash- 
fulness the spirits do a little and come ; but with bold men, upon 



FRANCIS BACON. 661 

like occasion, tliey stand at a stay, like a stale at chess, where it is 
no mate, but yet the game can not stir. But this last were fitter 
for a satire than for a serious observation. This is well to be 
weighed, that boldness is ever blind ; for it seetli not dangers and 
inconveniences : therefore it is ill in counsel, good in execution. 
So that the right use of bold persons is, that they never command 
in chief, but be seconds, and under the direction of others ; for in 
counsel it is good to see dangers, and in execution not to see them 
except they be very great. 



OF GOODNESS, AND GOODNESS OF NATURE. 

I TAKE goodness in this sense, — the affecting of the weal of 
men, which is that the Grecians call philanthropia ; and the 
word "humanity," as it is used, is a little too light to express it. 
Goodness I call the habit ; and goodness of nature, the inclina- 
tion. This, of all virtues and dignities of the mind, is the 
greatest, being the character of the Deity ; and without it man is 
a busy, mischievous, wretched thing, no better than a kind of 
vermin. Goodness answers to the theological virtue charit}^, and 
admits no excess but error. Tlie desire of power in excess caused 
the angels to fall ; tlie desire of knowledge in excess caused man 
to fall: but in charity there is no excess ; neither can angel or man 
come in danger by it. The inclination to goodness is imprinted 
deeply in the nature of man, insomucli that, if it issue not towards 
men, it will take unto other living creatures ; as it is seen in tlie 
Turks, a cruel people, who nevertheless are kind to beasts, and 
give alms to dogs and birds ; insomuch as, Busbechius reporteth, a 
Christian boy in Constantinople had liked to have been stoned ibr 
gagging, in a waggishness, a long-billed fowl. Errors, indeed, in 
this virtue of goodness or charity, may be committed. The Ital- 
ians have an ungracious proverb, Tanto huon, che val niente, — 
" So good, that lie is good for nothing." And one of the doctors 
of Italy, iSTicholas Machiavel, had the confidence to put in writing, 
almost in plain terms, " That the Christian faith had given up 
good men in prey to those that are tyrannical and unjust;" which 
he spake because, indeed, there was never law or sect or opinion 
did so much magnify goodness as the Christian religion doth : it 
is good to take knowledge of the errors of a habit so excellent. 
Seek the good of other men, but be not in bondage to their faces 
or fancies ; for that is but facility or softness which taketh an 
honest mind prisoner. Neither give thou ^sop's cock a gem, 
who would be better pleased and happier if he had a barleycorn. 
The example of God teacheth the lesson truly : " He sendeth his 




562 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

rain^ and maketh his sun to shine, upon the just and unjust;'' 
but he doth not rain wealth, nor shine honor and virtues, upon 
men equally. Common benefits are to be communicated with all, 
but peculiar benefits with choice. And beware how, in making 
the portraiture, thou breakest the pattern ; for divinity maketli 
the love of ourselves the pattern, the love of our neighbors 
but the portraiture. " Sell all thou hast, and give it to the poor, 
and follow me : " but sell not all thou hast, except thou come and 
follow me, — that is, except thou have a vocation wherein thou 
mayest do as much good with little means as with great ; for 
otherwise, in feeding the streams, thou driest the fountain. 
Neither is there only a habit of goodness directed by right 
reason : but there is in some men, even in nature, a disposition 
toward it; as, on the other side, there is a natural malignity; for 
there be that in their nature do not affect the good of others. 
The lighter sort of malignity turneth but to a crossness or froward- 
ness, or aptness to oppose, or difficileness, or the like ; but the 
deeper sort to envy and mere mischief. Such men, in other men's 
calamities, are, as it were, in season, and are ever on the loading 
part; not so good as the dogs that licked Lazarus' sores, but 
like flies that are still buzzing upon any thing that is raw; mis- 
anthropi, that make it their practice to bring men to the bough, 
and yet have never a tree for the purpose in their gardens,- as 
Timon had. Such dispositions are the very errors of human 
nature : and yet they are the fittest timber to make great politics 
of; like to knee-timber, that is good for ships that are ordained 
to be tossed, but not for building houses that shall stand firm. 
The parts and signs of goodness are manj'-. If a man be gracious 
and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world, 
and that his heart is no island cut off from other lands, but a 
continent that joins to them. If he be compassionate towards 
tlie afflictions of others, it shows that his heart is like the noble 
tree that is wounded itself when it gives the balm. If he easily 
pardons and remits offenses, it shows that his mind is planted 
above injuries, so that he can not be shot. If he be thankful for 
small benefits, it shows that he weighs men's minds, and not 
their trash. But, above all, if he have St. Paul's perfection, that 
he would wish to be anathema from Christ for tlie salvation of 
his brethren, it shows much of a divine nature, and a kind of 
conformity with Christ himself. 



THE BIBLE. 563 



THE BIBLE. 

The pure and powerful English of the translations of the Old and New Testa- 
ment, setting aside tlie sacred character even of the volume as the word of God, is 
sufhcient of itself to induce the faithful study of it by every pupil. The most im- 
portant of the earlier versions are, — 

Coverdale's, 1535. The Geneva Bible, 1560. 

Mathewe's, 1537. The Bishops', 1568. 

Cran.mer's, 1539. The Douay, 1582-1610. 

Taverner's, 1539. King James's, 1611. 

King James's version is the work of forty-seven bishops, out of fifty-four appointed 
to tiie task by the king. 



DA VID. 
PSALM- XXIV. — A PSALM OF DAVID. 

1. The eartli is the Lord's, and the fullness thereof; the world, 
and they that dwell therein. 

2. For he hath founded it upon the seas, and established it 
upon the floods. 

3. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord ? or who shall 
stand in his holy place ? 

4. He that hath clean hands and a pure heart ; who hath not 
lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. 

5. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteous- 
ness from the God of his salvation. 

6. This is the generation of them that seek him; that seek 
thy face, Jacob ! 

7. Lift up your heads 3^e gates ! and be ye lift up, ye ever- 
lasting doors ; and the King of glory shall come in. 

8. Who is this King of gloiy ? The Lord strong and mighty, 
the Lord mighty in battle. 

9. Lift up your heads, je gates ! even lift them up, ye ever- 
lasting doors ; and the King of glory shall come in. 

10. Who is this King of glory ? The Lord of hosts, he is the 
King of glory. 



ISAIAH. 
CHAPTER LV 



1. Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he 
that hath no money: come ye, buy and eat; yea, come, buy wine 
and milk without money and without price. 

2. Wherefore do ye spend money for that which is not bread, 
and your labor for that which satisfieth not? Hearken diligently 



564 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

unto me, and eat ye that whicli is good, and let your soul delight 
itself in fatness. 

3. Incline your ear, and come unto me ; hear, and your soul shall 
live ; and I will make an everlasting covenant with you, even the 
sure mercies of David. 

4. Behold, I have given him for a witness to the people, a leader 
and commander to the people. 

5. Behold, thou shalt call a nation that thou knowest not, and 
nations that knew not thee shall rnn unto thee, because of the 
Lord thy God, and for the Holy One of Israel ; for he hath 
glorified thee. 

6. Seek ye the Lord while he may be found ; call ye upon him 
while he is near. 

7. Let the wicked forsake his way, and the unrighteous man 
his thoughts: and let him return unto the Loud, and he will 
have mercy upon him ; and to our God, for he will abundantl}'' 
pardon. 

8. For my tlioughts are not your thoughts, neither are your 
ways my ways, saith the Lord. 

9. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my 
ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your 
thoughts. 

10. For as the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, 
and returneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it 
bring forth and bud, that it may give seed to the sower, and bread 
to the eater : 

11. So shall my word be that goeth forth out of ni}^ mouth : it 
shall not return unto me void; but it shall accomplish that 
which I please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent 
it. 

12. For ye shall go out with joy, and be led forth with peace : 
the mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into 
singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. 

13. Instead of the thorn shall come up the fir-tree, and instead 
of the brier shall come up the myrtle-tree ; and it shall be to 
the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that shall not be 
cut off. 



ST. PAUL. 

I CORIXTHIAXS, CHAP. XIII. 

1. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, 
and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling 
cymbal. 

2. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. 565 

mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that 
I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. 

3. And though I hestow all my goods to feed the poor, and 
though I give my body to be burned, and have not charitj^, it 
profiteth me nothing. 

4. Charity suifereth long, and is kind ; charity envieth not ; 
charity vaunteth not itself, is not putted up, 

5. Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is 
not easily provoked, thinketh no evil ; 

6. Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth ; 

7. Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, 
endureth all things. 

8. Charity never f-dileth : but whether there be prophecies, they 
shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether 
there be knowledge, it shall v^anish away. 

9. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. 

10. Bat when that whicli is perfect is come, then that which is 
in part shall be done awa3^ 

11. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a 
child, I tliought as a child; but, when I became a man, I put 
away childish things. 

12. For now we see through a glass, darkly ; but then face to 
face : now I know in part ; but then shall I know even as also I 
am known. 

13. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three ; but the 
greatest of these is charity. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 

1564-1G16. 

Author of thirtv-seven plays, several minor poems, and many sonnets. His best- 
known plays are "Hamlet," "Macbeth," "King Lear," "Romeo and Juliet," and 
" Otliello,"' tragedies; "The Merry Wives of Windsor," "Midsummer Niglit's 
Dream," " As You Like It," and " Mercliant of Venice," comedies; " Richard HL," 
" Coriolanus," "Julius Ccesar," " Heiny IV.," and "Henry VIII.," historical plays. 
A copy of his works, with biographical sketch, can be bought for a very small sum, 
and jsliould be in the hands of every student of English literature. We' select "Ju- 
lius Cffisar" to represent this greatest of English poets; for, as Dr. Johnson says, 
" He that tries to recommend him liy select quotations will succeed like the pedant 
in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket 
as a specimen." If properly studied, with the help of " Webster's Unabridged," no 
notes are necessarj'. A copy of Craik's "Julius Ctesar " with notes, or the Ameri- 
can edition of it by Rolfe, might be of service to teacher and class. 



566 



ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



JULIUS C^SAR. 



PERSONS REPRESENTED. 



Julius Cesar. 
OcTAVius Cesar, 
Marcus Antoxius, 
M. ^MiL. Lepidus, 



Triumvirs 

after the death of 

Julius Coesar. 



■ against Julius 
Ccesar. 



A Soothsayer. 

CiNNA, a Poet. — Another Poet. 

LuciLius, TiTixius, Messala, young 
Cato, and Volumnius, Friends to 
Brutus and Cassius. 

Varro, Clitus, Claudius, Strato, 
Lucius, Dakdaxius, Servants to Bru- 
tus. 

PiNDARUS, Servant to Cassitis. 



Calphurnia, Wife to Ccesar. 
Portia, Wife to Brutus. 

Senators, Citizens, Guards, Attendants, 

&c. 



Cicero, Publius, Popilius Lena, Sen- 
ators. 
Marcus Brutus, 
Cassius, 
Casca, 
Trebonius, 

LiGARIUS, 

Decius Brutus, 
Metellus Cimber, 

CiNNA, 

Flavius and Marullus, Tnbunes. 
Artemidorus, a Sophist of Cnldos. 

Scene, during a great part of the play, at Rome ; afterwards at Sardis, and near 
Philippi. 

ACT I. 

Scene I. — Rome. A Street. 

Enter Flavius, Marullus, and a rabble of Citizens. 

Flav. Hence ! home, you. idle creatures ! get you home ! 
Is this a holiday ? What ! know you not; 
Being mechanical, you ought not walk 
Upon a laboring-day without the sign 
Of your profession ? Speak ! what trade art thou ? 

1 Cit. Why, sir, a carpenter. 

Mar. AVliere is thy leather apron and thy rule ? 
What dost thou with thy best apparel on ? 
You, sir, — what trade are you ? 

2 Cit. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would 
say, a cobbler. 

Mar. But what trade art thou ? Answer me directly. 

2 Cit. A trade, sir, that, I hope, T may use with a safe conscience ; which 
is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. 

Mar. What trade, thou knave ? thou naughty knave, what trade ? 

2 Cit. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me ; yet if you be out, 
sir, I can mend you. 

Mar. AVhat mean'st thou by that ? Mend me, thou saucy fellow ? 

2 Cit. Why, sir, cobble you. 

Fiav. Thou art a cobbler, art thou ? 

2 Cit. Truly, sir, all that I live by is with the awl. I meddle with no 
tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, 
sir, a surgeon to old shoes : when they are in great danger, I recover 
them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leather have gone upon 
my handiwork. 

Flav. But wherefore art not in thy shop to-day? 
Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? 

2 Cit. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes, to get myself into more work. 
But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar, and to rejoice in hid 
triumph. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 5G7 

Mar. AVlierefore rejoice ? T\^iat conquest brings lie home ? 
What tributaries follow him to Rome 
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ? 
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things I 
O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome ! 
Knew you not Pompey ? Many a time and oft 
Have you climbed up to walls and battlements, 
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops, 
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat 
The livelong day, with patient expectation, 
To see g-reat Pompey pass the streets of Rome ; 
And, when you saw his chariot but appear. 
Have you not made a universal sliout, 
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks 
To hear the re[)lication of your sounds 
Made in her concave shores ? 
And do you now put on your best attire ? 



av 



And do you now cull out a holid 

And do you now strew flowers in his way 

That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? 

Begone ! 

Ran to your houses, fall upon your knees, 

Pray to the gods to intermit the plague 

Th;it -needs must light on this ingratitude. 

Flew. Go, go, good countrymen, and lor this fault 
Assemble all the poor men of your sort ; 
Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears 
Into the channel till the lowest stream 

Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. \_Exeunt Citizens. 

See whe'r their basest metal be not moved : 
They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. 
Go you down that way towards the Capitol : 
This way will I. Disrobe the images 
If you do find them decked with ceremonies. 

Mar. May we do so? ■ 
You know it is the feast of Lupercal. 

Fiav. It is no matter : let no images 
Be hung Avith Caesar's trophies. I'll about. 
And drive away the vulgar from the streets : 
So do you too, where you perceive them thick. 
These growing feathers plucked from C£esar's wing 
Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, 
AVho else would soar above the view of men, 
And keep us all in servile fearfulness. \Exeunt. 

Scene Jl.— Tlie Same. A Public Place. 

Enter in procession, with music, C^sar, Antony, for the course ; Cal,phurnia, 
Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd JoUowing, 
among them a Soothsayer. 

Cres. Calphiu-nia ! 

Casca. Peace, ho ! Caesar speaks. [Music ceases. 

Cces. Calphurnia ! 



568 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Cal. Here, my lord. 

Cces. Stand you directly in Antonius' way 
When he doth run his course. — Antonius I 

Ant. Ceesar, my lord. 

Cce.s\ Forget not, in your speed, Antonius, 
To touch Calpliurnia ; for our elders say, 
The barren, touched in this holy chase, 
Shake off their sterile curse. 

Ant. I shall remember: 
When Caesar says " Do tJiis," it is performed. 

Cce^. Set on, and leave no ceremony out. [^Music. 

Sooth. CaBsar ! 

Cces. Ha ! who calls ? 

Casca. Bid every noise be still. Peace yet again. \Music ceases. 

Cces. Who is it in the press that calls on me ? 
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, 
Cry " Caesar ! " Speak : Caesar is turned to hear. 

Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 

Cces. What man is that ? 

Bru. A soothsayer bids you bcAvare the ides of March. 

Cces. Set him before me : let me see his face. 

Ca^. Fellow, come from the throng : look upon Csesar. 

Cces. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. 

Sooth. Beware the ides of March. 

Cces. He is a dreamer : let us leave him. Pass. 

ISennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius. 

Cas. Will you go see the order of the course ? 

Bru. Not I. 

Cas. I pray you, do. 

Bru. I am not gamesome : I do lack some part 
Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. 
Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires : 
I'll leave you. 

Cas. Brutus, I do observe you now of late : . 
I have not from your eyes that gentleness 
And show of love as I was wont to have : 
You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand 
Over your friend that loves you. 

Bru. Cassius, 
Be not deceived : if I have veiled my look, 
I turn the trouble of my countenance 
Merely upon myself Vexed J am 
Of late with passions of some difference, 
Conceptions only proper to myself. 
Which give some soil, perhaps, to my behaviors ; 
But let not therefore my good friends be grieved, 
(Among which number, Cassius, be you one,) 
Nor construe any further my neglect. 
Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war. 
Forgets the shows of love to other men, 

Cas. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion, 
By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. ' 569 

Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. 
Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face ? 

Bru. JSfo, Cassius ; for the eye sees not itself 
But by reflection, by some other things. 

Cas. 'Tis just ; 
And it is very much lamented, Brutus, 
That you have no such mirrors as will turn 
Your hidden worthiness into your eye, 
That you might see your shadow. I have heard, 
AVhere many of the best respect in Rome 
(Except immortal Caesar), speaking of Brutus, 
And groaning underneath this age's yoke, 
Have wished that noble Brutus had his eyes. 

Bru. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, 
That you would have me seek into myself 
For that which is not in me ? 

Cas. Tlieretbre, good Brutus, be prepared to hear ; 
And, since you know you can not see }'Ourself 
So well as by reflection, I, your glass, 
Will modestly discover to yourself 
That of yourself which you yet know not of. 
And be not jealous of me, gentle Brutus : 
Were I a common laugher, or did use 
To stale with ordinary oaths my love 
To every new protester ; if you know 
That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, 
And after scandal them ; or if you know 
That I profess myself in banqueting 
To all the rout, — then hold me dangerous. {Flourish and sJiouL 

Bru. What means this shouting ? I do I'ear the people 
Choose Caesar for their king. 

Cas. Ay, do you fear it ? 
Then must I think you would not have it so. 

Bru. I would not, Cassius ; yet I love him well. 
But wherefore do you hold me here so long ? 
What is it that you would impart to me ? 
If it be aught toward the general good, 
Set honor in one eye, and death i' the other, 
And I will look on both indifferently ; 
For let the gods so speed me as I love 
The name of honor more than I fear death. 

Cas. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, 
As well as I do know your outward favor. 
Well, Honor is the subject of my story. 
I can not tell Avhat you and other men 
Think of this life; but, for my single self, 
I had as lief not be as live to be 
In awe of such a thing as 1 myself. 
I v/as born free as Ca3sar : so were you. 
We both have fed as well ; and we can both 
Endure the winter's cold as well as he. 
For once, upon a raw and gusty day, 



570 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, 

CiBsar said to me, *' Dar'st thou, Ca^sius, now 

Leap in with me into this angry flood, 

And swim to yonder point? " Upon the word, 

Accoutered as I was, I plunged in. 

And bade him follow : so, indeed, he did. 

Tlie torrent roared ; and we did buffet it 

With lusty sinews ; throwing it aside, 

And stemming it with hearts of controversy. 

But, ere we could arrive the point proposed, 

Csesar cried, " Help me, Cassius, or I sink ! " 

I, as -S^neas, our great ancestor, 

Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder 

The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber 

Did I the tired Csesar. And this man 

Is now become a god ; and Cassius is 

A wretched creature, and must bend his body 

If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. 

He had a fever when he was in Spain ; 

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark 

How he did shake : 'tis true, this god did shake ; - 

His coward lips did from their color fly ; 

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world, 

Did lose his luster. I did hear him gi'oan ; 

Ay, aTid that tongue of his, that bade the Romans 

Mark him, and write bis speeches in their books, 

Alas ! it cried, " Give me some drink, Titinius," 

As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me, 

A man of such a feeble temper should 

So get the start of the majestic world, 

And bear the palm alone ! [^Shout. Flourish. 

Bru. Another general shout ! 
I do believe that these applauses are 
For some new honors that are heaped on Ca?sar. 

Cas. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world ■ 
Like a Colossus ; and we petty men 
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about 
To find ourselves dishonorable graves. 
Men at some time are masters of their fates : 
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, 
But in ourselves, that we are underlings. 
Brutus and Ccesar : what should be in that CcEsar ? 
Why should that name be sounded more than yours ? 
Write them together, yours is as fair a name ; 
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well ; 
Weigh them, it is as heavy ; conjure with them, 

Brutus will start a spirit as soon as CcBsar. [^Shout. 

Now, in the names of all the gods at once, 
Upon what meat doth this our Cassar feed, 
That he is grown so great ? Age, thou art shamed I 
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods ! 
When went there by an age, since the great flood, 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 671 



But it was famed witli more than witli one man ? 
When could they say till now, that talked of Rome, 
That her wide walls encompassed but one man ? 
Now is it Rome indeed, and room enougli, 
When there is in it but one only man. 
Oh ! you and I have heard our fathers say 
There was a Brutus once that would have brooked 
The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome, 
As easily as a king. 

Bru. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous ; 
What you would work me to, I have some aim ; 
How I have thought of this, and of these times, 
I shall recount hereafter : for this present, 
I would not, so with love I might entreat you, 
Be any further moved. What you have said 
I will consider ; what you have to say 
I will with patience hear, and find a time 
Both meet to hear and answer such high things. 
Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this : 
Brutus had rather be a villager 
Than to repute himself a son of Rome 
Under these hard conditions as this time 
Is like to lay upon us. 

Cas. I am glad that my weak words 
Have struck but this much show of fire from Brutus. 

Re-enter C^sar and his Train. 

Bru. The games are done, and Ctesar is returning. 

Cfl>f. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve ; 
And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you 
What hath proceeded worthy note to-day. 

Bru. I will do so. But look you, Cassius ! 
The angry spot doth glow on Cassar's brow ; 
And all the rest look like a chidden train : 
Calphurnia's cheek is pale ; and Cicero 
Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes 
As we have seen him in the Capitol, 
Being crossed in conference by some senators. 

Cas. Casca will tell us what the matter is. 

Cces. Antonius ! 

Ant. Caesar! 

Cces. Let me have men about me that are fat ; 
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights : 
Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look ; 
He thinks too much : such men are dangerous. 

Ant. Fear him not, Caesar: he's not dangerous. 
He is a noble Roman, and well given. 

Cces. Would he were fatter ! But I fear him not. 
Yet, if my name were liable to fear, 
I do not know the man I should avoid 
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much ; 
He is a great observer, and he looks 



572 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Quite throiij^li the deeds of men : he loves no plays, 
As thou dost, Antony ; he hears no music ; 
Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort 
As if he mocked himseh", and scorned his spirit 
That could be moved to smile at any thing. 
Such men as he be never at heart's ease 
Whiles they behold a greater than themselves ; 
And therefore are they very dangerous. 
I rather tell thee what is to be feared 
Than what I fear ; for always I am CaBsar. 
Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, 
And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. 

^Sennet. Exeunt Cesar and his Train. Casca stays behind. 

Casca. You pulled me by the cloak : would you speak with me ? 

Bru. Ay, Casca : tell us what hath chanced to-day, 
That Caesar looks so sad. 

Casca. Why, you were with him, were you not ? 

Bru. I should not then ask Casca what hath chanced. 

Casca. Why, there was a crown offered him : and, being offered him, 
he put it by with the back of his hand, thus ; and then the peojjle fell 
a-shoutini- 

Bru. What was the second noise for ? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 

Cas. They shouted thrice : what was the last cry for? 

Casca. Why, for that too. 

Bru. Was the crown offered him thrice ? 

Casca. Ay, marry, was't ; and he put it by thrice, every time gentler 
than other ; and, at every putting by, mine honest neighbors shouted. 

Cas. W^ho offered him the crown ? 

Casca. Why, Antony. 

Bru. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. 

Casca. I can as well be hanged as tell the manner of it : it was mere 
foolery. I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown, — 
yet 'twas not a crown neither ; 'twas one of these coronets, — and, as I 
told you, he put it by once ; but for all that, to my thinking, he Avould 
fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again ; then he put it by 
again : but, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. 
And then he offered it the third time ; he put it the third time by : 
and still, as he refused it, the rabblement hooted, and clapped their 
chapped hands, and threw up their sweaty nightcaps, and uttered such 
a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown, that it had 
almost choked Caesar ; for he swooned and fell down at it. And, for 
my own part, I durst not laugh, for fear of opening my lips and re- 
ceiving the bad air. 

Caf. But soft, I pray you. What ! did Caesar swoon ? 

Casca. He fell down in the market-place, and foamed at mouth, and 
■was speechless. 

Bru. 'Tis very like: he hath the fdling-sickness. 

Cas. No, Caesar hath it not ; but you and I 
And honest Casca — we have the falling-sickness. 

Casca. I know not what you mean by that ; but I am sure Caesar 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 573 

fell do-n^n. If the tag-ra<^ people did not clap him and liiss him ac- 
cording as he pleased and displeased them, as they used to do the players 
in the theater, I am no true man. 

Bru. What said he when he came unto himself? 

Casca. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common 
herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet, 
and offered them his throat to cut. An I had been a man of any 
occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might 
go to hell among the rogues ! And so he fell. When he came to him- 
self again, he said, if he had done or said any thing amiss, he desired 
their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches 
where I stood cried, ^'Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their 
hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them : if Cassar had stabbed 
their mothers, they would have done no less. 

Bru. And, after that, he came thus sad away V 

Casca. Ay. 

Cas. Did Cicero say any thing ? 

Casca. Ay, he spoke Greek. 

Cas. To what effect ? 

Casca. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again. 
But those that understood him smiled at one another, and shook their 
heads; but, for my own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you 
more news too : MaruUus and Flavins, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's 
images, are put to silence. Fare you well ! There was more foolery 
yet, if I could remember it. 

Cas. Will you sup with me to night, Casca ? 

Casca. No : I am promised forth. 

Cas. AYill you dine Avith me to-morroAv ? 

Casca. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth 
the eating. 

Cas. Good : I will expect you. 

Casca. Do so. Farewell both ! [^Exlt Casca. 

Bru. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be 1 
He was quick mettle when he went to school. 

Cas. So is he now in execution 
Of any bold or noble enterprise. 
However he puts on this tardy form. 
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, 
W^hich gives men stomach to digest his words 
AVith better appetite. 

Bru. And so it is. For this time I will leave you : 
To-morrow, if you please to speak with me, 
I will come home to you ; or, if you will, 
Come home to me, and I Avill wait for you. 

Cas. I will do so : till then, think of the world. [_Exit Brutus. 

Well, Brutus, thou art noble ; yet I see 
Thy honorable metal may be wrought 
From that it is disposed : therefore it is meet 
That noble minds keep ever with their likes ; 
For who so fii'm that can not be seduced ? 
Caesar doth bear me hard ; but he loves Brutus. 
If I were Brutus now, and he were Cassius, 



574 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

He should not tumor me. I will this night, 

In several hands, in at his windows throw, 

As if thej came Irom several citizens, 

Writings all tending to the great opinion 

That Rome holds of his name, wherein obscurely 

Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at : 

And, after this, let Caesar seat him sure ; 

For we will shake him, or worse days endure. [^Exit. 

Scene III. — The Same. A Street. 
Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca with his sword dravm, and 

Cicero. 

Clc. Good-even, Casca ! Brought you Caesar home ? 

Why are you breathless ? and why stare you so ? 

Casca. Are not you moved when all the sway of earth 

Shakes like a thing unfirm ? O Cicero ! 

I have seen tempests when the scolding winds 

Have rived the knotty oaks ; and I have seen 

The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam 

To be exalted with the tlireatening clouds : 

But never till to-night, never till now, 

Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. 

Either there is a civil strife in heaven, 

Or else the world, too saucy with the gods, 

Incenses them to send destruction. 

Cic. Why, saw you any thing more wonderful ? 
Casca. A common slave (you know him well by sight) 

Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn 

Like twenty torches joined ; and yet his hand, 
Not sensible of fire, remained unscorched. 

Besides (I have not since put up my sword). 

Against the Capitol I met a lion. 

Who glared upon me, and went surly by. 

Without annoying me ; and there were drawn 
Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women. 
Transformed with their lear, who swore they saw 
Men all in fire walk up and down the streets. 
And yesterday the bird of night did sit, 
Even at noonday, upon the market-place, 
Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies 
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say 
These are their reasons, — they are natural ; 
For I beheve they are portentous things 
Unto the climate that they point upon. 

Cic. Indeed it is a strange-disposed time ; 
But men may construe things after their fashion, 
Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. 
Comes Csesar to the Capitol to-morrow ? 

Casca. He doth ; for he did bid Antonius 
Send word to you he would be there to-morrow. 

Cic. Good-night, then, Casca I this disturbed sky 
Is not to walk in. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 575 

Casca. Farewell, Cicero ! \' Exit Cicero. 

Enter Cassius. 

Cas. Who's there ? 

Casca. A Roman. 

Cas. Casca, by your voice. 

Casca. Your ear is good. Cassius, what a night is this 1 

Cas. A very pleasing night to honest men. 

Casca. Who ever knew the heavens menace so ? 

Cas. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. 
For my part, I have walked about the streets, 
Submitting me unto the perilous night ; 
And thus unbraced, Casca, as you see. 
Have bared my bosom to the thunder-stone ; 
And, when the cross blue lightning seemed to open 
The breast of heaven, I did present myself 
Even in the aim and very flash of it. 

Casca. But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens ? 
It is the part of men to fear and tremble 
When the most mighty gods, by tokens, send 
Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. 

Cas. YoLi are dull, Casca ; and those sparks of life 
That should be in a Roman you do want. 
Or else you use not. You look pale, and gaze, 
And put on fear, and cast yourself in wonder, 
To see the strange impatience of the heavens : 
But if you would consider the true cause, 
AVhy all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, 
Why birds and beasts, from quality and kind ; 
Why old men, fools, and children calculate ; 
^fV\ly all these things change from their ordinance, 
Their natures, and pre-formed faculties, 
To monstrous quality, — why, you shall find 
That Heaven hath infused them with these spirits 
To make them instruments of fear and warning 
Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, 
Name to thee a man most like this dreadful night ; 
That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars, 
As doth the lion in the Capitol ; 
A man no mightier than thyself and me 
In personal action, yet prodigious grown. 
And fearful as these strange eruptions are. 

Casca. 'Tis Cassar that you mean. Is it not, Cassius ? 

Cas. Let it be who it is : for Romans now 
Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors ; 
But, woe the while ! our fathers' minds are dead, 
And we are governed with our mothers' spirits : 
Our yoke and sufferance show us womanisli. 

Casca. Indeed, they say, the senators to-morrow 
Mean to establish Cresar as a king ; 
And he shall wear his crown by sea and land 
In every place save here in Italy. 



576 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



Cas. I know where I will wear this dagger, then : 
Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius : 
Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; 
Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. 
Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, 
Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron, 
Can be retentive to the strength of spirit j 
But life, being weary of these worldly bars, 
Never lacks power to dismiss itself. 
If I know this, know, all the world besides. 
That part of tyranny that I do bear 
I can shake off' at pleasure. 

Casca. So can I : 
So every bondman in his own hand bears 
The power to cancel his captivity. 

Cas . And why should Cgesar be a tyrant, then ? 
Poor man ! I know he would not be a wolf, 
But that he sees the Romans are but sheep : 
He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. 
Those that with haste will make a mighty fire 
Begin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome, 
AVhat rubbish, and what offal, when it serves 
For the base matter to illuminate 
So vile a thing as Csesar ! But, O Grief! 
Where hast thou led me ? I, perhaps, speak this 
Before a willing bondman : then I know 
My answer must be made. But I am armed, 
And dangers are to me indifferent. 

Casca. You speak to Casca ; and, to such a man, 
That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold my hand : 
Be factious for redress of all these griefs, 
And I will set this foot of mine as lar 
As who goes farthest. 

Cas. There's a bargain made. 
Now know you, Casca, I have moved already 
Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans 
To undergo with me an enterprise 
Of honorable-dangerous consequence ; 
And I do know by this they stay for me 
In Pompey's porch : for now, tliis fearful night, 
There is no stir or walking in the streets ; 
And the complexion of the element 
In favor's like the work we have in hand, — 
Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. 

£7iter CiNNA. 

Casca. Stand close a while ; for here comes one in haste. 

Cas. 'Tis Cinna : I do know him by his gait. 
He is a friend. — Cinna, where haste you so ? 

Cin. To find out you. Who's that ? Metellus Cimbei ' 

Cas. No : it is Casca ; one incorporate 
To our attempts. Am I not staid for, Cinna ? 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 577 

Cin. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this ! 
There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. 

Cos. Am I not staid for, Cinna ? Tell me, 

Cin. Yes, you are. 
O Cassius ! if you could but win the noble Brutus to our party — 

Cas, Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper ; 
And, look you, lay it in the praetor's chair. 
Where Brutus may but find it ; and throw this 
In at his window ; set this up with wax 
Upon old Brutus' statue : all this done, 
Repair to Pompey's porch, where you shall find us. 
Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there ? 

Cm. All but Metellus Cimber ; and he's gone 
To seek you at. your house. Well, I will hie, 
And so bestow these papers as you bade me. 

Cas. That done, repair to Pompey's theater. j[^Exit Cinna. 

Come, Casca, you and I will yet, ere day, 
See Brutus at his house : three parts of him 
Is ours already ; and the man entire. 
Upon the next encounter, yields him ours. 

Casca. Oh ! he sits high in all the people's hearts ; 
And that which would appear offense in us, 
His countenance, like richest alchemy, 
Will change to virtue and to worthiness. 

Cas. Him and his worth, and our great need of him, 
You have right well conceited. Let us go, 
For it is after midnight ; and ere day 
We will awake him, and be sure of him. [_Exeunt. 



ACT IT. 

Scene I. — The Same. Brutus' Orchard, 

Enter Brutus. 
Bru. What, Lucius ! ho ! 
I can not by the progress of the stars 
Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say ! 
I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly ! 
When, Lucius ? when ? Awake, I say I What, Lucius I 

Enter Lucros. 

Luc. Called you, my lord ? 

Bru. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius : 
When it is lighted, come and call me here. 

Luc. I will, my lord. lExiL 

Bru. It must be by his death ; and, for my part, 
I know no personal cause to spurn at him. 
But for the general. He would be crowned : 
How that miglit change Jiis nature, there's the question. 
37 



578 ENGLISH UTEEATURE. 

It is tbe bright day that brings forth the adder ; 

And that craves wary walking. Crown him V — that ; 

And then, I grant, we put a sting in him, 

That at his will be may do danger with. 

Tlie abuse of greatness is when it disjoins 

Remorse from power ; and, to speak truth of Caesar, 

I have not known when his affections swayed 

More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof 

That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, 

Whereto the climber upward turns his face ; 

But, when he once attains the upmost round, 

He then unto the ladder turns his back. 

Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees 

By which he did ascend. So Csesar may. 

Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quairel 

Will bear no color for the thing he is, 

Fashion it thus ; that what he is, augmented, 

Would run to these and these extremities : 

And therefore think him as a serpent's egg. 

Which, hatched, would, as his kind, grow mischievous; 

And kill him in the shell. 

Re-enter Lucius. 

Luc. The taper bumeth in your closet, sir. 
Searching the window for a flint, I found 
This paper, thus sealed up ; and I am sure 
It did not lie there when I went to bed. {^Gives Mm the lett^ 

Bru. Get you to bed again : it is not day. 
Is not to-morrow, boy, the ides of March ? 

Luc. I know not, sir. 

Bru. Look in the calendar, and bring me word. 

Luc. I will, sir. [Exit. 

Bru. The exhalations whizzing in the air 
Give so much light, that I may read by them. 

[Opens tJie letter, and reads. 
"Brutus, tJiou sleep' St ; aivaJce, and see tJiyself! 
Shall Rome, Sfc. Speak, strike, redress ! '* 
" Brutus, thou sleep' st ; awake ! " 
Such instigations have been often dropped 
Where I have took them up. 
" Shall Rome, §"c." Thus must I piece it out : — 
Shall Rome stand under one man's awe ? What ! Rome ? 
My ancestors did from the streets of Rome 
The Tarquin drive when he was called a king. 
" Speak, strike, redress ! " Am I entreated, then, 
To speak and strike ? O Rome ! I make thee promise, 
If the redress will follow, thou receivest 
Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus. 

Re-enter Lucius. 

Luc. Sir, March is wasted fourteen days. \^Knock within. 

Bru. 'Tis good. Go to the gate : somebody knocks. [Exit Lucius. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 579 

Since Cassius first did whet me against Csesar, 

I have not slept. 

Between the acting of a dreadful tiling 

And the first motion, all the interim is 

Like a phantasma or a hideous dream : 

The genius and the mortal instruments 

Are then in council ; and the state of a man, 

Like to a little kingdom, sutters then 

The nature of an insurrection. 

He-enter Lucius. 

Luc. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, 
Who doth desire to see you. 

Bru. Is he alone ? 

Luc. No, sir : there are more with him. 

Bru. Do you know them ? 

Luc. No, sir : their hats are pkicked about their ears, 
And half their faces buried in their cloaks, 
That by no means I may discover them 
By any mark of favor. 

Bru. Let them enter. lExit Lucius. 

Tliey are the faction. O Conspiracy ! 
Sham'st thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, 
When evils are most free ? Oh ! then, by day. 
Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough 
To mask thy monstrous visage Y Seek none, Conspiracy ; 
Hide it in smiles and affability ; 
For, if thou path thy native semblance on, 
Not Erebus itself were dim enough 
To hide thee from prevention. 

JSnter Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimbek, and Tkebonius. 

Cas. I think we are too bold upon your rest : 
Good-morrow, Brutus ! Do we trouble }'0u ? 

B?m. I have been up this hour ; awake all night. 
Know I these men that come along with you V 

Cas. Yes, every man of them ; and no man here 
But honors you ; and every one doth wish 
You liad but that opinion of yourself 
W^hich every noble Roman bears of you. 
This is Trebonius. 

Bru. He is welcome hither. 

Cas. This, Decius Brutus. 

Bru. He is welcome too. 

Cas. This, Casca ; this, Cinna ; and this, Metellus Cimber. 

Bru. They are all welcome. 
What watchful cares do interpose themselves 
Betwixt your eyes and niijht? 

Cas. Shall I entreat a word ? IThey whisper, 

Dec. Here lies the east: doth not the day break here ? 

Casca. No. 



580 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Cm. Oil ! pardon, sir ; it doth ; and yon gray lines 
That fret the clouds are messengers of* day. 

Casca. You shall confess that you are both deceived. 
Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, 
Which is a great way growing on the south, 
Weighing the youthful season of the year. 
Some two months hence, up higher toward the north 
He first presents his fire ; and the high east 
Stands, as the Capitol, directly here. 

Bru. Give me your hands all over, one by one. 

Cas. And let us swear our resolution. 

Bru. No, not an oath : if not the face of men, 
The sufl'erance of our souls, the time's abuse, — 
If these be motives weak, break off betimes, 
And every man hence to his idle bed : 
So let high-sighted tyranny range on 
Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, 
As I am sure they do, bear fire enough 
To kindle cowards, and to steel with valor 
The melting spirits of women, — then, countrymen, 
What need we any spur but our own cause 
To prick us to redress ? what other bond 
Than secret Romans, that have spoke the word. 
And will not palter ? and what other oath 
Than honesty to honesty engaged 
That this shall be, or we will fall for it ? 
Swear priests and cowards, and men cautelous. 
Old feeble carrions, and such suffering souls 
That welcome wrongs ; unto bad causes swear 
Such creatures as men doubt : but do not stain 
The even virtue of our enterprise, 
Nor the insuppressive metal of our spirits, 
To think that or our cause or our performance 
Did need an oath ; when every drop of blood 
That every Roman bears, and nobly bears. 
Is guilty of a several bastardy 
If he do break the smallest particle 
Of any promise that hath passed from him. 

Cas. But what of Cicero ? Shall we sound him ? 
I think he will stand very strong with us. 

Casca. Let us not leave him out. 

Cm. No, by no means ! 

Met. Oh ! let us have him ; for his silver hairs 
Will purchase us a good opinion. 
And buy men's voices to commend our deeds ; 
It shall be said his judgment ruled our hands : 
Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, 
But all be buried in his gravity. 

Bru. Oh, name him not ! let us not break with him ; 
For he will never follow any thing 
That other men begin. 

Cas. Then leave him out. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 581 

Casca. Indeed, he is not fit. 

Dec. Shall no man else be touched but only Csesar? 

Cas. Decius, well urged. I think it is not meet 
Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, 
Should outlive Caesar. We shall find of hini 
A shrewd contriver : and you know his means, 
If he improve tliein, may well stretch so far 
As to annoy us all ; which to prevent, 
Let Antony and Caesar fall together. 

Bru. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, 
To cut the head off, and then hack the limbs, 
Like wrath in death, and envy afterwards ; 
For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. 
Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. 
We all stand up against the spirit of Caasar ; 
And in the spirit of men there is no blood : 
Oh that we then could come by Ctesar's spirit, 
And not dismember Csesar ! But, alas ! 
Cagsar must bleed for it. And, gentle friends, 
Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully ; 
Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, 
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds ; 
And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, 
Stir up their servants to an act of rage, 
And after seem to chide them. This shall mark 
Our purpose necessary, and not envious ; 
Which so appearing to the common eyes, 
We shall be called purgers, not murderers. 
And for Mark Antony, think not of him ; 
For he can do no more than Csesar's arm 
When Ceesar's head is off. 

Cas. Yet I do fear him ; 
For in the ingrafted love he bears to Csesar — 

Bru. Alas ! good Cassius, do not think of liim : 
If he love Cassar, all that he can do 
Is to himself, — take thought, and die for Cassar : 
And that were much he should ; for he is given 
To sports, to wildness, and much company. 

Treb. There is no fear in him : let him not die; 
For he will live, and laugh at this hereafter. [^Clock strikes. 

Bru. Peace ! count the clock. 

Cas. The clock hath stricken three. 

T?'eb. 'Tis time to part. 

Cas. But it is doubtful yet 
Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no: 
For he is superstitious grown of late ; 
Quite from the main opinion he held once 
Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. 
It may be, these apparent prodigies, 
The unaccustomed terror of this night, 
And the persuasion of his augurers, 
May hold him from the Capitol to-day. 



582 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Dec. Never fear that. If he be so resolved, 
I can o'ersway him ; for he loves to hear 
That unicorns may be betrayed with trees, 
And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, 
Lions with toils, and men with flatterers : 
But, when I tell him he hates flatterers, 
He says he does, being then most flattered. 
Let me work : 

For I can give his humor the true bent ; 
And I will bring him to the Capitol. 

Cas. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. 

Bru. By the eighth hour : is that the uttermost ? 

Cm. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. 

Met. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, 
Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey : 
I wonder none of you have thought of him. 

Bru. Now, good Metellus, go along by him : 
Pie loves me well, and I have given him reasons : 
Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. 

Cas. The morning comes upon us : we'll leave you, Brutus. 
And, friends, disperse yourselves ; but all remember 
What you have said, and show yourselves true Romans. 

Bru. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily : 
Let not our looks put on our purposes, 
But bear it as our Roman actors do, 
With untired spirits and formal constancy. 

And so good-morrow to you every one ! \_Exeunt all hut Brutus. 

Boy ! Lucius ! Fast asleep ? It is no matter ; 
Enjoy the heavy honey-dew of slumber : 
Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, 
Which busy care draws in the brains of men ; 
Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. 

Enter Portia. 

Pot. Brutus, my lord ! 

Bru. Portia, what mean you ? Wherefore rise you now ? 
It is not for your health thus to commit 
Your weak condition to the raw-cold morning. 

Por. Nor for yours neither. You've ungently, Brutus, 
Stole from my bed ; and yesternight, at supper, 
You suddenly arose, and walked about. 
Musing and sighing, with your arms across ; 
And, when I asked you what the matter was, 
You stared upon me with ungentle looks. 
I urged you further ; then you scratched your head. 
And too impatiently stamped with your foot ; 
Yet I insisted ; yet you answered not. 
But, with an angry wafture of your hand. 
Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, 
Fearing to strengthen that impatience 
Which seemed too much enkindled, and, withal. 
Hoping it was but an effect of humor. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEABB, 

Which sometime hath his hour with every man. 
It will not let you eat nor talk nor sleep ; 
And, could it work so much upon your shape 
As it hath much prevailed on your condition, 
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, 
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. 

Bru. I am not well in health ; and that is all. 

Por. Brutus is wise ; and, were he not in health. 
He would embrace the means to come by it. 

Bru. AVhy, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. 

Por. Is Brutus sick ? and is it physical 
To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors 
Of the dank morning ? What ! is Brutus sick, 
And will he steal out of his wholesome bed 
To dare the vile contagion of the night, 
And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air 
To add unto his sickness ? No, my Brutus : 
You have some sick offense within your mind. 
Which, by the right and virtue of my place, 
I ought to know of; and upon my knees 
I charm you, by my once commended beauty, 
By all your vows of love, and that great vow 
Which did incorporate and make us one, 
That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, 
Why you are heavy ; and what men to-night 
Have had resort to you : for here have been 
Some six or seven, who did hide their faces 
Even from darkness. 

Bru. Kneel not, gentle Portia. 

Por. I should not need if you were gentle Brutus. 
Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, 
Is it excepted I should know no secrets 
That appertain to you ? Am I yourself, 
But, as it were, in sort, or limitation ; 
To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed. 
And talk to you sometimes ? Dwell I but in the suburbs 
Of your good pleasure ? If it be no more, 
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. 

Bru. You are my true and honorable wife ; 
As dear to me as are the ruddy drops 
That visit my sad heart. 

Por. If this were true, then should I know tliis secret. 
I grant I am a woman, but, withal, 
A woman that lord Brutus took to wife: 
I grant I am a woman, but, withal, 
A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter. 
Think you I am no stronger than my sex, 
Being so fathered and so husbanded V 
Tell me your counsels ; I will not disclose them : 
I have made strong proof of my constancy, 
Giving myself a voluntary wound 
Here in the thigh. Can I bear that with patience, 
And not my husband's secrets ? 



584 ENGLISH LITER ATTJEE. 

Bru. O ye gods, 
Render me worthy of this noble wife ! [^Knocking vfitJiin, 

Hark, hark ! one knocks. Portia, go in a while ; 
And by and by thy bosom shall partake 
The secrets of my heart. 
All my engagements I will construe to thee, 
All the charactery of my sad brows. 
Leave me with haste. [^Exit Portia. 

Enter Lucius and LiGAErus. 

Lucius, who is that knocks ? 

Luc. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. 

Bru. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. — 
Boy, stand aside ! Caius Ligarius ! how ? 

Lig. Vouchsafe good-morrow from a feeble tongue. 

Bru. Oh, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, 
To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick 1 

Lig. I am not sick if Brutus have in hand 
Any exploit worthy the name of honor. 

Bru. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, 
Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. 

Lig. By all the gods that Romans bow before, 
I here discard my sickness. Soul of Rome 1 
Brave son, derived from honorable loins 1 
Thou like an exorcist hast conjured up 
My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, 
And I will strive with things impossible ; 
Yea, get the better of them. What's to do ? 

Bru. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. 

Lig. But are not some whole that we must make sick? 

Bru. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, 
I shall vmfold to thee, as we are going 
To whom it must be done. 

Lig. Set on your foot ; 
And with a heart new fired I follow you. 
To do I know not what : but it sufficeth 
That Brutus leads me on. 

Bru. Follow me, then. [^Exeunt, 

Scene n. — The Same. A Room in Cesar's Palace. 

Thunder and lightning. Enter Cjesab. in his night-gown. 

Cces. Nor heaven nor earth hath been at peace to-night. 
Tlirice hath Calphurnia in her sleep cried out, 
" Help, ho I they murder Ccemr ! " Who's within ? 

Enter a Servant. 
Serv. My lord ? 

Cces. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, 
And bring me their opinions of success. 

Serv. I will, my lord. ' [Exit. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. 585 



Enter Calphuknia. 



Cal. TVliat mean you, Csesar ? Think you to walk forth. ? 
5rou shall not stir out of your house to-day. 

Cces. Cjesar shall Ibrth. The things that threatened me 
Ne'er looked but on my back : when they shall see 
The face of Caesar, they are vanished. 

Cal. Caesar, I never stood on ceremonies ; 
Yet now they fright me. There is one within, 
Besides the things that we have heard and seen, 
Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. 
A lioness hath Avhelped in the streets ; 
And graves have yawned, and yielded up their dead ; 
Fierce, fiery Avarriors fight upon the clouds 
In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, 
Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol ; 
The noise of battle hurtled in the air ; 
Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan ; 
And ghosts did slnnek and squeal about the streets. 
O Caasar ! these things are beyond all use, 
And I do fear them. 

Cces. What can be avoided 
Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods ? 
Yet Caesar shall go forth ; for these predictions 
Are to the world in general as to Caesar. 

Cal. When beggars die, there are no comets seen : 
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. 

Cces. Cowards die many times before their deaths : 
The valiant never taste of death but once. 
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, 
It seems to me most strange that men should fear; 
Seeing that death, a necessary end, 
Will come when it will come. 

Re-enter a Servakt. 

What say the augurers ? 

Serv. They would not have you to stir forth to-day. 
Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, 
They could not find a heart within the beast. 

Cces. The gods do this in shame of cowardice. 
Caesar should be a beast without a heart 
If he should stay at home to-day for fear. 
No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full well 
That Caesar is more dangerous than he. 
We are two lions littered in one day. 
And I the elder and more terrible ; 
And Csesar shall go forth. 

Cal. Alas, my lord ! 
Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. 
Do not go forth to-day. Call it my fear 
That keeps you in the house, and not your own. 
We'll send Mark Antony to the senate-house ; 



586 ENGLISH LITER ATUEE. 

And he shall say you are not well to-day : 
Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. 

CcBs. Mark Antony shall say I am not well ; 
And for thy humor I will stay at home. 

Enter Decius. 

Here's Decius Brutus : he shall tell them so. 

Dec. Csesar, all hail ! Good-morrow, worthy Caesar ! 
I come to fetch you to the senate-house. 

C(ES. And you are come in very happy time 
To bear my greeting to the senators, 
And tell them that 1 will not come to-day. 
Can not is false ; and that I dare not, falser : 
I will not come to day. Tell them so, Decius. 

Cal. Say he is sick. 

Cces. Shall Csesar send a lie ? 
Have I in conquest stretched mine arm so far 
To be afeard to tell gray-beards the truth ? 
Decius, go tell them Ctesar will not come. 

Dec. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, 
Lest I be laughed at when I tell them so. 

Cces. The cause is in my will : I will not come : 
That is enough to satisfy the senate. 
But lor your private satisfaction. 
Because I love you, I will let you know. 
Calphurnia here, my wife, stays me at home. 
She dreamt to-night she saw my statue. 
Which, like a fountain with a hundred spouts, 
Did run pure blood ; and many lusty Romans 
Came smiling, and did bathe their hands in it. 
And these does she, apply for warnings and portents 
Of evils imminent, and on her knee 
Hath begged that I will stay at home to-day. 

Dec. This dream is all amiss interpreted : 
It was a vision fair and fortunate. 
Youv statue spouting blood in many pipes, 
In which so many smiling Romans bathed, 
Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck 
Reviving blood ; and that great men shall press 
For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. 
This by Calphurnia's dream is signified. 

Cces. And this way have you well expounded it. 

Dec. I have when you have heard what I can say. 
And know it now : The senate have concluded 
To give this day a crown to mighty Cassar. 
If you shall send them word you will not come, 
Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock 
Apt to be rendered, for some one to say, 
^^ Break up the senate fill another time, 
When Ccesnr^s wife shall meet with better dreams." 
If Cajsar hide himself, shall they not whisper, 
" Lo J Ccesar is afraid " V 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 587 

Pardon me, Csesar : for my dear, dear love 
To your proceeding bids me tell you this ; 
And reason to my love is liable. 

CcBs. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calphumia I 
I am ashamed I did yield to them. 
Give me my robe ; for I will go : 

Enter Publius, Bkutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Tkebonius, and Cksna. 

And look where Publius is come to fetch me ! 

Puh. Good-morrow, Caesar 1 

Cces. Welcome, Publius ! — 
What, Brutus ! are you stirred so early too ? — 
Good-morrow, Casca ! — Caius Ligarius, 
Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy 
As that same ague which hath made you lean. — 
What is't o'clock ? 

Bru. Caesar, 'tis struck eight. 

Cces. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. 

Enter Antony. 

See ! Antony, that revels long o' nights, 
Is, notwithstanding, up. — 
Good-morrow, Antony ! 

Ant. So to most noble Caesar, 

Cces. Bid them prepare within : 
I am to blame to be thus waited for. 
Now, Cinna ! — Now, Metellus ! — What, Trebonius ! 
I have an hour's talk in store for you. 
Remember that you call on me to-day : 
Be near me that I may remember you. 

Treh. Caesar, I will ; and so near will I be, \_Aside, 

That your best friends shall wish I had been farther. 

Cces. Good friends, go in and taste some wine with me ; 
And we, like friends, will straightway go together. 

Bru. That every like is not the same, O Csesar 1 
The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon. \_Aside, Exeunt, 

Scene III. — The Same. A Street near (he Capitol. 
Enter Artemidoeus, reading a paper. 

Art. Caesar, heivare of Brutus ; take heed of Cassius ; come not near 
Casca ; have an ej/e to Cinna ; trust not Trebonius ; mark loell Metellus 
Cimber ; Decius Brutus loves thee not ; thou hast icronged Caius Ligarius. 
There is but one mind in all these men ; and it is bent against Caesar. 
If thou beest not immortal, look about you : security gives tcay to con- 
spiracy. The mighty gods defend thee ! Thy love?', Artemidorus. 

Here will I stand till Csesar pass along ; 

And as a suitor will I give him this. 

My heart laments that virtue can not live 

Out of the teeth of emulation. 

If thou read this, O Caesar ! thou mayst live; 

If not, the fates with traitors do contrive. [^ExU. 



588 ENGLISH LITEEATUEE. 



Scene IV. — The Same. Another Part of the same Street^ before the House of 

BUUTUS. 

Unier Portia and Lucius. 

Por. I prithee, boy, run to the senate-house : 
Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone ! 
Why dost thou stay ? 

Luc. To know my errand, madam, 

Por. I would have had thee there and here again 
Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. 

Constancy, be strong upon my side ! 

Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue ! 

1 have a man's mind, but a woman's might. 
How hard it is for women to keep counsel ! 
Art thou here yet ? 

Luc. Madam, what should I do ? 
Run to the Capitol, and nothing else ? 
And so return to you, and nothing else ? 

Por. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look -well ; 
For he went sickly forth : and take good note 
What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. 
Hark, boy ! What noise is that V 

Luc. I hear none, madam. 

Por. Prithee, listen well : 
I heard a bustling rumor, like a fray ; 
And the wind brings it from the Capitol. 

Luc. Sooth, madam, 1 hear nothing. 

Enter The Soothsayer. 

Por. Come hither, fellow. AVhich way hast thou been ? 

Sooth. At mine own house, good lady. 

Por. What is't o'clock ? 

Sooth. About the ninth hour, lady. 

Por. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol ? 

Sooth. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand 
To see him pass on to the Capitol. 

Por. Thou liast some suit to Ctesar ; hast thou not ? 

Sooth. That I have, lady : if it will please Csesar 
To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, 
I shall beseecli him to befriend himself. 

Por. Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him ? 

Sooth. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. 
Good-morrow to you ! 

Here the street is nan'ow : 
Tlie throng that follows Caesar at the heels — 
Of senators, of praetors, common suitors — ■ 
Will crowd a feeble man almost to death. 
I'll get me to a place more void, and there 
Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. l_Exit-. 

Por. I must go in. Ah me ! how weak a thing 
The heart of woman is ! 



\ WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. 589 

O Brutus! 

The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise I 
Sure the boy heard me. Brutus hath a suit 
That Caesar will not grant. Oh ! I grow faint. 
Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord ; 
Say I am merry : come to me again, 
And bring me word what ho doth say to thee. [^Exeunt. 



ACT III. 
Scene I. — TJie Same. The Capitol; the Senate sitting. 

A crowd of people in the street lending to the Capitol; among them Aktemtdorus 
and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter Cesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, De- 
cius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinxa, Aktony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius, 
and Others. 

Cms. The ides of March are come. 

Sooth. Ay, Csesar ; but not gone. 

Ai't. Hail, Caesar ! Read this schedule. 

Dec. Trebonius doth desire you to o'er-read 
At your best leisure this his humble suit. 

Art. O Caesar! read mine first; for mine's a suit 
Tliat touches Csesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar. 

Cces. What touches us ourself shall be last served. 

Art. Delay not, Caesar: read it instantly. 

Cces. What ! is the fellow mad ? 

Pub. Sirrah, give place ! 

Cas. What ! urge you your petitions in the street? 
Come to the Capitol. 

C^SAE enters the Capitol, the rest following. All the Senators rise. 

Pop. I wish your enterprise to-day may thrive. 

Cas. What enterprise, Popilius ? 

Pop. Fare you well ! [^Advances to C^sar. 

Bru. What said Popilius Lena ? 

Cas. He wished to-day our enterprise might thrive. 
I fear our purpose is discovered. 

Bru. Look how he makes to Csesar ! Mark him I 

Cas. Casca, be sudden ; for we fear prevention. 
Brutus, what shall be done ? If this be known, 
Cassius on Caesar never shall turn back ; 
For I will slay myself. 

Bru. Cassius, be constant : 
Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes ; 
For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. 

Cas. Trebonius knows his time ; for, look you, Brutus, 
He. draws Mark Antony out of the way. [Exeunt Antony and Trebo- 
nius. C^SAR and the Senators take their seats. 

Dec. Where is Metellus Cimber ? Let him go, 
And presently prefer his suit to Csesar. 



1 



590 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Bru. He is addressed : press near, and second liim. 
Cln. Case a, you are the first that rears your hand. 
Casca. Are we all ready ? 
Cces. What is now amiss 
That Caesar and his senate must redress ? 

Alet. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caasar, 
Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat 
A humble heart. [^Kneeling. 

Cces. I must prevent thee, Cimber. 
These crouchings and these lowly courtesies 
Might fire the blood of ordinary men, 
And turn pre-ordinance and first decree 
Into the law of children. Be not fond 
To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood 
That will be thawed from the true quality 
With that which melteth fools : I mean sweet words, 
Low-crouched courtesies, and base spaniel-fawning. 
Thy brother by decree is banished : 
If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, 
I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. 
Know, Csesar doth not wrong ; nor without cause 
Will he be satisfied. 

Met. Is there no voice more worthy than my own 
To sound more sweetly in great Csesar's ear 
For the repealing of my banished brother ? 

Bru. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar ; 
Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may 
Have an immediate freedom of repeal. 
Cces. What, Brutus ! 
Cas. Pardon, Ctesar ; Caesar, pardon : 
As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall 
To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. 

Cces. I could be well moved if I were as you ; 
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me : 
But I am constant as the northern star, 
Of whose true-fixed and resting quality 
There is no fellow in the firmament. 
The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks ; 
They are all fire, and every one doth shine ; 
But there's but one in all doth hold his place : 
So in the world ; 'tis furnished well with men, 
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive ; 
Yet in the number I do know but one 
That unassailable holds on his rank, 
Unshaked of motion : and, that I am he. 
Let me a little show it, even in this, — 
That I was constant Cimber should be banished, 
And constant do remain to keep him so. 
Cin. O Caesar ! 

Cces. Hence ! wilt thou lift up Olympus ? 
Dec. Great Caesar ! 
Cces. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel ? 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 591 

Casca. Speak, hands, for me ! [Casca stabs C^sar in the neck. Qm- 
SAR catches hold of his arm. He is then stabbed by several other 
conspirators, and at last by Marcus Brutus. 

Cces. Et tu, Brute ! — Then fall, Caesar ! [Dies. The Senators and 

Peoj)le retire in confusion, 

Cin. Liberty ! Freedom ! Tyranny is dead 1 — 
Kun hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. 

Cas. Some to the common pulpits, and cry out, 
*' Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement ! " 

Bru. People and senators, be not affrighted ; 
Fly not ; stand still : ambition's debt is paid. 

Casca. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. 

Dec. And Cassius too. 

Bru. Where's Publius? 

Cin. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. 

Met. Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar's 
Should chance — 

Bru. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer I 
There is no harm intended to your person, 
Nor to no Roman else : so tell them, Publius. 

Cas. And leave us, Publius, lest that the people, 
Eushing on us, should do your age some mischief. 

Bru. Do so; and let no man abide this deed, 
But we the doers. 

Re-enter Teebonius. 

Cas. Where's Antony ? 

Tre. Fled to his house amazed. 
Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and ran. 
As it were doomsday. 

Bru. Fates ! we will know your pleasures. 
That we shall die, we know : 'tis but the time, 
And drawing days out, that men stand upon. 

Casca. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life 
Cuts off so many years of fearing death. 

Bru. Grant that, and then is death a benefit : 
So are we Csesar's friends, that have abridged 
His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop. 
And let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood 
Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords ; 
Then walk we forth, even to the market-place. 
And, waving our red weapons o'er our heads, 
Let's all cry, " Peace ! Freedom ! and Liberty ! '* 

Cas. Stoop, then, and wash. How many ages hence 
Shall this our lofty scene be acted over 
In states unborn, and accents yet unknown ! 

Bru. How many times shall Csesar bleed in sport, 
That now on Pompey's basis lies along, 
No Avorthier than the dust ! 

Cas. So oft as that shall be, 
So often shall the knot of us be called 
The men that gave their country liberty. 
Dec. What, shall we forth ? 
Cas. Ay, every man away 1 



592 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Brutus shall lead ; and we will grace his heels 
With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome. 

Enter a Servant. 

Bru. Soft ! who comes here ? A friend of Antony's. 

Sert). Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel ; 
Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down ; 
And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say : 
" Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest ; 
Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving. 
Say, I love Brutus, and I honor him ; 
Say, I feared Cassar, honored him, and loved him. 
If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony 
May safely come*to him, and be resolved 
How Cassar hath deserved to lie in death, 
Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead 
So well as Brutus living, but will follow 
The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus, 
Thorough the hazards of this untrod state, 
With all true faith." So says my master Antony. 

Bru. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman : 
I never thought him worse. 
Tell him, so please him come unto this place, 
He shall be satisfied, and, by my honor. 
Depart untouched. 

Serv. I'll fetch him presently. [Exit. 

Bru. I know that we shall have him well to friend. 

Cas. I wish we may : but yet have I a mind 
That fears him much ; and my misgiving still 
Falls shrewdly to the purpose. 

Re-enter Antony. 

Bru. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony ! 

Ant. O mighty Csesar 1 Dost thou lie so low ? 
Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils. 
Shrunk to this little measure ? Fare thee well I 
I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, 
Who else must be let blood, who else is rank : 
If I myself, there is no hour so fit 
As Cffisar's death's hour, nor no instrument 
Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich 
With the most noble blood of all this world. 
I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard. 
Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, 
Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, 
I shall not find myself so apt to die. 
No place Avill please me so, no mean of death, 
As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, 
The choice and master spirits of this age. 

Bru. O Antony I beg not your death of us. 
Though now we must appear bloody and cruel. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 593 

As by our hands, and this our present act, 

You see we do, yet see you but our hands. 

And this the bleeding business they have done. 

Our hearts you see not ; they are pitful ; 

And pity to the general -wrong of Roiue 

(As fire drives out fire, so pity, pity) 

Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, 

To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony : 

Our arms, in strength of malice, and our hearts, 

Of brothers' temper, do receive you in 

With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. 

Cos. Your voice shall be as strong as any man's 
In the disposing of new dignities. 

Bru. Only be patient till we have appeased 
The multitude, beside themselves with fear, 
And then we will deliver you the cause 
Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, 
Have thus proceeded. 

Ant. I doubt not of your wisdom. 
Let each man render me his bloody hand : 
First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you ; 
Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand ; 
Now, Decius Brutus, yours ; now yours, Metellus ; 
Yours, Cinna ; and, my valiant Casca, yours ; 
Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. 
Gentlemen all, — alas ! what shall I say ? 
My credit now stands on such slippery ground, 
That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, — 
Either a coward or a flatterer. — 
That I did love thee, Caesar, oh ! 'tis true : 
If then thy spirit look upon us now. 
Shall it not grieve thee, dearer than thy death, 
To see thy Antony making his peace. 
Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes. 
Most noble ! in the presence of thy corse ? 
Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds. 
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood. 
It would become me better than to close 
In terms of friendship with thine enemies. 
Pardon me, Julius ! Here wast thou bayed, brave hart ; 
Here didst thou fall ; and here thy hunters stand, 
Signed in thy spoil, and crimsoned in thy lethe. 
O world ! thou wast the forest to this hart ; 
And this, indeed, O world ! the heart of thee. 
How like a deer, strucken by many princes, 
Dost thou here lie ! 

Cos. Mark Antony ! 

Ant. Pardon me, Caius Cassius : 
The enemies of Csesar shall say this ; 
Then in a friend it is oold modesty. 

Cas. I blame you not for praising Caesar so. 
But what compact mean you to have with us? 



594 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Will you be pricked in number of our friends ? 
Or shall we oh, and not depend on you ? 

A7it. Therefore I took your hands, but was, indeed, 
Swayed from the point by looking down on Ctesar. 
Friends am I with you all, and love you all, — 
Upon this hope, that you shall give me reasons 
Why and wherein Csesar was dangerous. 

Bru. Or else were this a savage spectacle. 
Our reasons are so full of good regard, 
That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, 
You should be satisfied. 

Ant. That's all I seek : 
And am, moreover, suitor that I may 
Produce his body to the market-place ; 
And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, 
Speak in the order of his funeral. 

Bru. You shall, Mark Antony. 

Cas. Brutus, a word with you. 
You know not what you do. Do not consent [^Aside. 

That Antony speak in his funeral. 
Know you how much the people may be moved 
By that which he will utter ? 

Bru. By your pardon, 
I will myself into the pulpit first, 
And show the reason of our Caesar's death : 
What Antony shall speak, I will protest 
He speaks by leave and by permission ; 
And that we are contented Csesar shall 
Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. 
It shall advantage more than do us wrong. 

Cas. I know not what may fall : I like it not. 

Bru. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar's body. 
You shall not in your funeral-speech blame us, 
But speak all good you can devise of Csesar ; 
And say you do't by our permission ; 
Else shall you not have any hand at all 
About his funeral. And you shall speak 
In the same pulpit whereto I am going, 
After my speech is ended. 

A7it. Be it so : 
I do desire no more. 

Bru. Prepare the body, then, and follow us. {Exeunt all hut Antony. 

Ant. Oh, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, 
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers 1 
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man 
That ever lived in the tide of times. 
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood ! 
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy, — 
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips 
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue, — 
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men ; 
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. 595 

Shall cumber all the parts of Italy ; 
Blood and destruction shall be so in use, 
And dreadful objects so familiar, 
That mothers shall but smile when they behold 
Their offspring quartered with the hands of war; 
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds; 
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge. 
With Ate by his side come hot from hell. 
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice 
Cry " Havoc ! " and let slip the dogs of war ; 
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth, 
With carrion men groaning for burial. 

Enter a Servant. 

You serve Octavius Cgesar ; do you not ? 

Serv. I do, Mark Antony. 

Ant. Caesar did write for him to come to Rome. 

Serv. He did receive his letters, and is coming; 
And bid me say to you by word of mouth — 
O Caesar ! — \^Seeing the lody. 

Ant. Thy heart is big : get thee apart and weep. 
Passion, I see, is catching ; for mine eyes. 
Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, 
Began to water. Is thy master coming ? 

Serv- He lies to-night within seven leagues of Rome. 

Ant. Post back with speed, and tell him what hath chanced. 
Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome ; 
No Rome of safety for Octavius yet : 
Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay a while ; 
Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse 
Into the market-place : there shall I try 
In my oration how the people take 
The cruel issue of these bloody men ; 
According to the which thou shalt discourse 
To young Octavius of the state of things. 
Lend me your hand. [Exeunt with Cesar's body. 

Scene II. — The Same. The Forum. 
Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens. 

Cit. We will be satisfied ; let us be satisfied. 

Bru. Then follow me, and give me audience, friends. 
Cassius, go you into the other street, 
And part the numbers. 

Those that will hear me speak, let them stay here ; 
Those that will follow Cassius, go with him ; 
And public reasons shall be rendered 
Of Caesar's death. 

1 Cit. I will hear Brutus speak. 

2 Cit. I will hear Cassius, and compare their reasons 

When severally we hear them rendered. [^Exit Cassius with some of 
the CiTiZEjTs. Brutus goes into the rostrum. 



596 ENGLISH LITERATUEB. 

3 Cit. The noble Brutus is ascended. Silence ! 

Bru. Be patient till the last. 
Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause; and be silent, 
that ye may hear : believe me for mine honor ; and have respect to 
mine honor, that you may believe : censure me in your wisdom ; and 
awake your senses, that you may the better judge. K there be any 
in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say that Brutus' 
love to Caesar was no less than his. If, then, that friend demand 
why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer : " Not that I loved 
Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more." Had you rather Caesar were 
living, and die all slaves, than that Csesar were dead, to live all free- 
men ? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him ; as he was fortunate, \ 
rejoice at it ; as he was valiant, I honor him : but, as he was ambitious, 
I slew him. There is tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honor 
for his valor, and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that 
would be a bondman ? If any, speak : for him have I offended. Who 
is here so rude that would not be a Roman ? If any, speak : for him 
have I offended. AVho is here so vile that will not love his country ? 
If any, speak : for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. 

Cit. None, Brutus, none ! \_Several speaking at once, 

Bru. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Casar 
than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled 
in the Capitol : his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy ; nor 
his offenses enforced, for which he suffered death. 

Enter Amtony and others with Cesar's body. 

Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, ^vvho, though he had 
no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, — a place in 
the commonwealth ; as which of you shall not ? With this I depart, — 
that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same 
dagger for myself when it shall please my country to need my death. 
Cit. Live, Brutus, live ! live ! 

1 Cit. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. 

2 Cit. Give him a statue with his ancestors. 

3 Cit. Let him be Csesar. 

4 Cit. Csesar's better parts 
Shall now be crowned in Brutus. 

1 Cit. We'll bring him to his house with shouts and clamors. 
Bru. My countrymen ! 

2 Cit. Peace, silence ! Brutus speaks. 
1 Cit. Peace, ho ! 

5rM. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, 
And for my sake stay here with Antony : 
Do grace to Caesar's corpse, and grace his speech 
Tending to Caesar's glories ; which Mark Antony, 
By our permission, is allowed to make. 
1 do entreat you, not a man depart. 
Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. lExit. 

1 Cit. Stay, ho ! and let us hear Mark Antony. 

3 Cit. Let him go up into the public chair : 
We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. 

Ant. For Brutus' sake, I am beholden to you. 



"WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 697 

4 Cit. What does he say of Brutus ? 

3 Cit. He says, for Brutus' bake, 
He finds himself beholden to us all. 

4 Cit. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. 

1 Cit. This Caesar was a tyrant. 
3 Cit. Nay, that's certain : 

We are blest that Rome is rid of him. 

2 Cit. Peace ! let us hear what Antony can say. 
Ant. You gentle Romans — 

Cit. Peace, ho ! let us hear him. 

Ant. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears : 
I come to bury Cassar, not to praise him. 
The evil that men do lives after them ; 
The good is oft interred with their bones : 
So let it be with Cajsar. The noble Brutus 
Hath told you Caesar was ambitious : 
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, 
And grievously hath Caesar answered it. 
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, 
(For Brutus is an honorable man ; 
So are they all, all honorable men,) 
Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. 
He was my friend, faithful and just to me : 
But Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
He hath brought many captives home to Rome, 
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill ; 
Did this in Caesar seem ambitious ? 
Wlien that the poor hath cried, Csesar hath wept : 
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And Brutus is an honorable man. 
You all did see, that on the Lupercal 
I thrice presented him a kingly crown. 
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? 
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious ; 
And, sufe, he is an honorable man. 
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke ; 
But here I am to speak what I do know. 
You all did love him once, not without cause : 
What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him ? 

judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, 

And men have lost their reason ! Bear with me : 
My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, 
And I must pause till it come back to me. 

1 Cit. Methinks there is m.uch reason in his sayings. 

2 Cit. If thou consider rightly of the matter, 
Caesar has had great wrongs. 

3 Cit. Has he not, masters ? 

1 fear there will a worse come in his place. 

4 Cit. Marked ye his words ? He would not take the crown : 
Therefore, 'tis certain, he was not ambitious. 



5&8 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

1 Cit. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. 

2 Cit. Poor soul ! his eyes are red as fire with weeping. 

3 Cit. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. 

4 Cit. Now mark him : he begins again to speak. 
Ant. But yesterday, the word of Csesar might 

Have stood against the world : now lies he there, 
And none so poor to do him reverence. 

masters ! if I were disposed to stir 
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, 

1 should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, 
AVho, you all know, are honorable men : 

I will not do them wrong ; I rather choose 

To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, 

Than I will wrong such honorable men. 

But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar ; 

I found it in his closet : 'tis his will. 

Let but the commons hear this testament, 

(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,) 

And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, 

And dip their napkins in his sacred blood ; 

Yea, beg a hair of him for memory. 

And, dying, mention it within their wills, 

Bequeathing it as a rich legacy 

Unto their issue. 

4 Cit. We'll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony. 

Cit. The will, the will ! We will hear Caesar's will. 

Ant. Have patience, gentle friends; I must not read it: 
It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. 
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men ; 
And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, 
It will inflame you ; it will make you mad. 
Tis good you know not that you are his heirs ; 
'For, if you should, oh ! what would come of it ? 

4 Cit. Read the will I We will hear it, Antony : you shall read us the 
will, — Caesar's will I 

Ant. Will you be patient? Will you stay a while? 
I have o'er shot myself to tell you of it. 
I fear I wrong the honorable men 
Whose daggers have stabbed Csesar : I do fear it. 

4 Cit. They were traitors ! Honorable men I 

Cit. The will ! the testament ! 

2 Cit. They were villains, murderers I The will 1 
Read the will ! 

Ant. You will compel me, then, to read the will ? 
Then make a ring about the corpse of Csesar, 
And let me show you him that made the will. 
Shall I descend ? and will you give me leave ? 

Cit. Come down. 

2 Cit. Descend. [//e comes down from the pulpit 

3 Cit. You shall have leave. 

4 Cit. A ring : stand round. 

1 Cit, Stand from the hearse ; stand from the body. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKE. 599 

2 Cit. Room for Antony ! — most noble Antony I 

Ant. Nay, press not so upon me : stand far off. 

Cit. Stand back ! room ! bear back ! 

Ant. If you have tears, prepare to shed tbem no-w. 
You all do know this mantle. I remember 
The first time ever Csesar put it on : 
'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, 
That day he overcame the Nervii. 
Look ! in tliis place ran Cassius' dagger through ; 
See what a rent the envious Casca made ! 
Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed ; 
And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, 
Mark how the blood of Csesar followed it, 
As rushing out of doors to be resolved 
If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no ; 
For Brutus, as you know, was Cajsar's angel : 
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him 1 
This was the most unkindest cut of all ; 
For, when the noble Csesar saw him stab, 
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, 
Quite vanquished him : then burst his mighty heart; 
And in his mantle muffling up his face, 
E'en at the base of Pompey's statua, 
"Which all the while ran blood, great Csesar fell. 
Oh, what a fall was there, my countrymen ! 
Then I, and you, and all of us, fell down, 
Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. 
Oh ! now you weep ; and, I perceive, you feel 
The dint of pity : these are gracious drops. 
Kind souls, what ! weep you when you but behold 
Our Csesar's vesture wounded? Look }ou here ! 
Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. 

1 Cit. O piteous spectacle I 

2 Cit. O noble Csesar ! 

3 Cit. O woeful day ! 

4 Cit. O traitors, villains ! 

1 Cit. O most bloody sight ! 

2 Cit. We will be revenged : revenge 1 about, — seek, — burn, -. five, 
— kill, — slay ! — let not a traitor live 1 

A nt. Stay, countrymen ! 

1 Cit. Peace there ! — hear the noble Antony. 

2 Cit. We'll hear him ; we'll follow him ; we'll die with him. 
Ant. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up 

To such a sudden flood of mutiny. 

They that have done this deed are honorable : 

What private griefs they have, alas ! I know not, 

That made them do it : they are ■wise and honorable, 

And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. 

I come not, friends, to steal away yom^ hearts : 

I am no orator, as Brutus is. 

But, as you know me all, a plain, blunt man. 

That love my friend ; and that they know full well 



600 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

That gave me public leave to speak of liim. 
For I have neither wit nor words nor worth, 
Action nor utterance, nor the power of speech, 
To stir men's blood : I only speak right on ; 
I tell you that which you yourselves do know ; 
Show you sweet Csesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, 
And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, 
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony 
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue 
In every wound of Caesar, that should move 
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. 
Clt. We'll mutiny. 

1 Cit. We'll burn the house of Brutus. 

3 CiL Away, then ! come, seek the conspirators. 

Ant. Yet hear me, countrymen ; yet hear me speak. 

CiL Peace, ho ! Hear Antony, most noble Antony. 

Ant. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. 
Wherein hath Csesar thus deserved your loves ? 
Alas ! you know not : I must tell you then. 
You have forgot the will I told you of. 

Cit. Most true ! The will : let's stay, and hear the will. 

Ant. Here is the will, and under Caasar's seal. 
To every Roman citizen he gives. 
To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. 

2 Cit. Most noble Csesar ! — we'll revenge his death. 

3 Cit. O royal Caesar ! 

Ant. Hear me Avith patience. 

Cit. Peace, ho ! 

Ant. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, 
His private arbors, and new-planted orchards. 
On this side Tiber : he hath left them you. 
And to your heirs for ever ; common pleasures, 
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. 
Here was a Csesar : when comes such another ? 

1 Cit. Never, never ! Come, away, away 1 
We'll burn his body in the holy place. 

And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. 
Take up the bodv- 

2 Cit. Go, fetch fire. 

3 Cit. Pluck down benches. 

4 Cit. Pluck down forms, windows, any thing. [Exeunt Citizens 

with the iody. 
Ant. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot ! 
Take thou what course thou wilt 1 How now, fellow ? 

Enter a Servant. 

Serv. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome. 

Ant. Where is he? 

Serv. He and Lepidus are at Caesar's house. 

Ant. And thither will I straight to visit him. 
He conies upon a wish. Fortune is merry. 
And in this mood will give us any thing. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 601 

Serv. I heard him say, Brutus and Cassius 
Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome. 

Ant. BeHke they had some notice of the people, 
How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. [^Exeunt, 

Scene m. — The Same. A Street. 

Enter Cinna, the poet. 

Cin. I dreamt to-night that I did feast with Caesar, 
And things unluckily charge my fantasy. 
1 have no will to wander forth of doors ; 
Yet something leads me forth. 

JEnter Citizens. 

1 Cit. What is your name ? 

2 Cit. Whither are you going ? 

3 Cit. Where do you dwell ? 

4 Cit. Are you a married man, or a bachelor ? 

2 Cit. Answer every man directly. 
1 Cit. Ay, and briefly. 

4 Cit. Ay, and wisely. 

3 Cit. Ay, and truly, you were best. 

Cin. What is my name ? Whither am I going ? Wliere do I dwell ? 
Am I a married man, or a bachelor V Then to answer every man 
dii-ectly and briefly, wisely and truly. Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor. 

Cit. That's as much as to say they are fools that marry : you'll bear 
me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed, — directly. 

Cin. Directly, I am going to Caesar's funeral. 

1 Cit. As a friend, or an enemy ? 
Cin. As a frierid. 

2 Cit. That matter is answered directly. 

4 Cit. For your dwelling, — briefly. 
Cin. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. 

3 Cit. Your name, sir, — truly. 
Cin. Truly, my name is Cinna. 

1 Cit. Tear him to pieces ! he's a conspirator ! 
Cin. 1 am Cinna the poet ! I am Cinna the poet ! 

4 Cit. Tear him for his bad verses ! tear him for his bad verses I 
Cin. I am not Cinna the conspirator ! 

2 Cit. It is no matter ; his name's Cinna : pluck but his name out of 
his heart, and turn him going ! 

3 Cit. Tear him, tear him ! Come, brands, ho ! fire-brands ! To 
Brutus', to Cassius' ; burn all ! Some to Decius' house, and some to 
Casca's ; some to Ligarius' : away I go 1 ^Exeunt, 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — TJte Same. A Boom in Antony's House. Antony, Octavius, amj 
Lepidus, seated at a Table. 

Ant. These many, then, shall die : their names are pricked. 
Oct. Your brother, too, must die, Consent you, Lepidus ? 



602 ENGLISH LITERATURBw 

Lep. I diO consent. 

Oct. Prick him down, Antony. 

Lep. Upon condition Publius shall not live, 
Who is your sister's son, Mark Antony, 

Ant. He shall not live : look, with a spot I damn him. 
But, Lepidus, go you to Csesar's house ; 
Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine 
How to cut off some charge in legacies. 

Lep. What, shall I find vou here ? 

Oct. Or here, or at the Capitol. [Exit Lepidus 

Ant. This is a slight unmeritable man, 
Meet to be sent on errands : is it fit, 
The threefold world divided, he should stand 
One of the three to share it ? 

Oct. So you thought him, 
And took his voice who should be pricked to die 
In our black sentence and proscription. 

Ant. Octavius, I have seen more days than you; 
And, though we lay these honors on this man 
To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, 
He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, — 
To groan and sweat under the business. 
Either led or driven, as we point the way ; 
And, having brought our treasure where we will, 
Then take we down his load, and turn him off, 
Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears, 
And graze on commons. 

Oct. You may do your will ; 
But he's a tried and valiant soldier. 

Ant. So is my horse, Octavius ; and for that 
I do appoint him store of provender. 
It is a creature that I teach to fight, 
To wind, to stop, to run directly on ; 
His corporal motion governed by my spirit. 
And in some taste is Lepidus but so : 
He must be taught and trained, and bid go forth ; 
A barren-spirited fellow ; one that feeds 
On objects, arts, and imitations. 
Which, out of use, and staled by other men, 
Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him 
But as a property. 

And now, Octavius, 
Listen gi-eat things. Brutus and Cassius 
Are levying powers ; we must straight make head : 
Therefore let our alliance be combined. 
Our best friends made, and our best means stretched out ; 
And let us presently go sit in council. 
How covert matters may be best disclosed, 
And open perils surest answered. 

Oct. Let us do so : for we are at the stake, 
And bayed about with many enemies ; 
And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, 
Millions of mischief. [Exeunt 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKE. G03 



Scene II. — Before, Brutus' Ttnt, in the Camp near Sardis. 

Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Titimus, and Soldiers; Pixdarus meeting 
them ; Lucius at a distance. 

Bru. Stand, ho ! 

Lucil. Give the word, ho ! and stand. 

Bru. What now, Lucilius ? Is Cassius near ? 

Lucil. He is at hand ; and Pindarus is come 
To do you salutation from his master. 

[Pindarus gives a letter to Brutus. 

Bru. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, 
In his own charge, or by ill officers, 
Hath given me some worthy cause to Avish 
Things done undone ; but, if he be at hand, 
I shall be satisfied. 

Pin. I do not doubt 
But that my noble master will appear 
Such as he is, full of regard and honor. 

Bru. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius : 
How he received you, let me be resolved. 

Lucil. With courtesy, and with respect enough. 
But not with such familiar instances, 
Nor with such free and friendly conference, 
As he hath used of old. 

Bru. Thou hast described 
A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, 
When love begins to sicken and decay, 
It useth an enforced ceremony. 
There are no tricks in plain and simple faith : 
But hollow men, like horses hot at hand. 
Make gallant show and promise of their mettle ; 
But, when they should endure the bloody spur, 
They fall their crests, and, like deceitful jades. 
Sink in the trial. Comes his army on ? 

Lucil. They mean this night in Sardis to be quartered : 
The greater part, the horse in general, 
Are come with Cassius. \_March laithin, 

Bru. Hark ! he is arrived : 
March gently on to meet him. 

Enter Cassius and Soldiers. 

Cas. Stand, ho ! 

Bru. Stand, ho ! Speak the word along. 

Within.'] Stand 1 

Within.] Stand I 

Within.] Stand! 
Cas. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. 
Bru. Judge me, you gods ! Wrong I mine enemies ? 
And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother ? 

Cas. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs ; 
And when you do them — 
Bru. Cassius, be content ; 



I 



604 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Speak your griefs softly : I do know you well. 
Before the eyes of both our armies here, 
Which should perceive nothing but love from us, 
Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away : 
Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, 
And I will give you audience. 

Cas. Pindarus, 
Bid our commanders lead their charges off 
A little from this ground. 

Bru. Lucilius, do the like ; and let no man 
Come to our tent till we have done our conference. 
Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. \Exeunt. 

Scene III. — Within the Tent of Brutus. 
Enter Brutus and Cassius. 

Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : 
You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella 
For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; 
Wherein my letters, praying on his side, 
Because I knew the man, were slighted off. 

Bru. You wronged yourself to write in such a case. 

Cas. In such a time as this, it is not meet 
That every nice offense should bear his comment. 

Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself 
Are much condemned to have an itching palm. 
To sell and mart your offices for gold 
To undeservers. 

Cas. I an itching palm ? 
You know that you are Brutus that speaks this, 
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last ! 

Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption ; 
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. 

Cas. Chastisement ! 

Bru. Remember March ! the ides of March rem(imber I 
Did not great Cajsar bleed for justice' sake? 
What villain touched his body, that did stab, 
And not for justice ? What ! shall one of us, 
That struck the foremost man of all this world 
But for supporting robbers, — shall we nov/ 
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes. 
And sell the mighty space of our large honors 
For so much trash as may be grasped thus ? 
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, 
Than such a Roman. 

Crt.v. Brutus, bay not me ; 
I'll not endure it : you forget yourself. 
To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, 
Older in practice, abler than yourself 
To make conditions. 

Bra. Go to ; you are not, Cassius. 

Cas. I am. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKE. 605 

Bru. I say you are not. 

Ca.'i. Urge me no more : I shall forget myself. 
Have mind upon your health : tempt me no further. 

Bru, Away, slight man ! 

Cas. Is't possible ? 

Bru. Hear me ; for I will speak. 
Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? 
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? 

Cas. O ye gods ! ye gods ! Must I endure all this ? 

Bru. All this ? ay, more ! Fret till your proud heart break ; 
Go show your slaves how choleric you are. 
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge ? 
Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
Under your testy humor ? By the gods, 
You shall digest the venom of your spleen, 
Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, 
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, 
When you are waspish. 

Cas. Is it come to this ? 

Bru. You say you are a better soldier : 
Let it appear so ; make your vaunting true, 
And it shall please me well. For mine own part, 
I shall be glad to learn of abler men. 

Cas. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus : 
I said an elder soldier, not a better ; 
Did I say better? 

Bru. If you did, I care not. 

Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. 

Bru. Peace, peace ! you durst not so have tempted him. 

Cas. I durst not ? 

Bru. No. 

Cas. What 1 durst not tempt him ? 

Bru. For your life you durst not. 

Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love : 
I may do that I shall be sorry for. 

Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. 
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; . 
For I am armed so strong in honesty. 
That they pass by me as the idle wind. 
Which I respect not. I did send to you 
For certain sums of gold, Avhich you denied me ; 
For I can raise no money by vile means. 
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart, 
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring 
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash 
By any indirection. I did send 
To you for gold to pay my legions, 
Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? 
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so ? 
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous. 
To lock such rascal counters from his friends, 
1 Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts I 
Dash him to pieces 1 



606 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

Cas. I denied you not. 

Bru. You did. 

Cas. I did not : he was but a fool 
That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart : 
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities ; 
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. 

Br'u. I do not, till you practice them on me. 

Cas. You love me not. 

Bru. I do not like your faults. 

Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. 

Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear 
As huge as high Olympus. 

Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, 
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius ; 
For Cassius is aweary of the world ; 
Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; 
Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, 
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote, 
To cast into my teeth. Oh, I could weep 
My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, 
And here my naked breast ; Avithin, a heart 
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer thnn gold: 
If that thou beest a Roman, take it forth. 
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart : 
Strike, as thou didst at Csesar ; for I know, 
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst him better 
Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius. 

Bru. Sheathe your dagger ! 
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope ; 
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. 
O Cassius ! you are yoked with a lamb 
That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; 
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark. 
And straight is cold again. 

Cas. Hath Cassius lived 
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, 
When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him ? 

Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. 

Cas. Do you confess so much ? Give me your hand. 

Bru. And my heart too. 

Cas. O Brutus ! 

Bru. What's the matter ? 

Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me 
When that rash humor which my mother gave me 
Makes me forgetful ? 

Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and from henceforth, 
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, 
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. [Noise within. 

Poet. [ Within.'\ Let me go in to see the generals. 
There is some grudge between 'em : 'tis not meet 
They be alone. 

Lucil. [ Witliin.~\ You shall not come to them. 

Poet. [ Within.'} Nothing but death shall stay me. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. C07 

Enter Poet. 

Cas. How now ? What's the matter ? 

Poet. For shame, you generals ! What do you mean ? 
Love and be friends, as two such men should be ; 
For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye. 

Crt.s*. Ha, ha ! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme 1 

Bru. Get you hence, sirrah ! saucy fellow, hence 1 

Cas. Bear with him, Brutus : 'tis his fashion. 

Bru. I'll know his humor when he knows his time. 
What should the wars do with these jigging fools ? 
Companion, hence ! 

Cas. Away, away I begone ! {Exit Poet. 

Enter Lucilius and Titinius. 

Bru. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders 
Prepare to lodge their companies to-night. 

Cas. And come yourselves, and bring Messala with you, 
Immediately to us. [Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius. 

Bru. Lucius, a bowl of wine. 

Cas. I did not think you could have been so angry. 

Bru. O Cassius ! I am sick of many griefs. 

Cas. Of your philosophy you make no use, 
If you give place to accidental evils. 

Bru. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead. 

Cas. Ha! Portia? 

Bru. She is dead. 

Cas. How 'scaped I killing when I crossed you so ? — 

insupportable and touching loss ! — 
Upon what sickness ? 

Bru. Impatient of my absence. 
And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony 
Have made themselves so strong ; for with her death 
That tidings came : with this she fell distract, 
And, her attendants absent, swallowed fire. 

Cas. And died so ? 

Bru. Even so. 

Cas. O ye immortal gods ! 

Enter Lucius with wine and tapers. 

Bru. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine : 
In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [Drinks, 

Cas. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. 
Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup : 

1 can not drink too much of Brutus' love. [Drinks. 

Re-enter TrriNius with Messala. 

Bru. Come in, Titinius ! — Welcome, good Messala ! — 
Now sit we close about this taper here, 
And call in question our necessities. 

Cas. Portia, art thou gone ? 

Bru. No more, I pray you. — 



608 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Messala, I have here received letters 
That young Octavius and Mark Antony 
Come down upon us with a niighty power. 
Bending their expedition toward Philippi. 

Mes, Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor. 

Bru. With what addition ? 

Mes. That by proscription, and bills of outlawry, 
Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus 
Have put to death a hundred senators. 

Bru. Tlierein our letters do not well agree : 
Mine speak of seventy senators that died 
By their proscriptions, Cicero being one. 

Cas. Cicero one ? 

Mes. Cicero is dead, 
And by that order of proscription. 
Had you your letters from your wife, my lord ? 

Bru. No, Messala. 

Mes. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her ? 

Bru. Nothing, Messala. 

Mes. That, methinks, is strange. 

Bru. Why ask you ? Hear yon aught of her in yours? 

Mes. No, my lord. 

Bru. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. 

Mes. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell : 
For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. 

Bru. Why, farewell, Portia ! We must die, Messala, 
With meditating that she must die once, 
I have the patience to endure it now. 

Mes. Even so great men great losses should endure. 

Cas. I have as much of this in art as you ; 
But yet my nature could not bear it so. 

Bru. Well, to our work alive. What do you think 
Of marching to Philippi presently ? 

Cas. I do not think it good. 

Bru. Your reason ? 

Cas. This it is : 
'Tis better that the enemy seek us : 
So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers^ 
Doing himself offense ; whilst we, lying still, 
Are full of rest, defense, and nimbleness. 

Bru. Good reasons must, of force, give place to better. 
The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground 
Do stand but in a forced affection ; 
For they have grudged us contribution. 
Tlie enemy, marching along by them, 
By them shall make a fuller number up, 
Come on refreshed, new-hearted, and encouraged ; 
From which advantage shall we cut him off 
If at Philippi we do face him there. 
These people at our back. 

Cas. Hear me, good brother. 

Bru. Under your pardon. — You must note beside. 



"WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 609 

That we have tried the utmost of our friends : 

Our legions are brimful! ; our cause is ripe ; 

The enemy increasetli every day ; 

We at the hight are ready to decline. 

Tliere is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune ; 

Omitted, all the voyage of their life 

Is bound in shallows and in miseries. 

On such a full sea are we now afloat ; 

And we must take the current when it serves, 

Or lose our ventures. 

Cas. Then, with }-our will, go on : 
We'll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi. 

Bru. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, 
And nature must obey necessity ; 
Which we will niggard with a little rest. 
There is no more to say ? 

Cas. No more. Good-night ! 
Early to-morrow will we rise, and hence. 

Bru. Lucius, my gown. \Exit Lucius. 

Farewell, good Messala ! — 
Good-night Titinius ! — Noble, noble Cassius, 
Good-night, and good repose ! 

Cas. O my dear brother ! 
This was an ill beginning of the night. 
Never come such division 'tween our souls I 
Let it not, Brutus. 

Bru. Every thing is well. 

Cas. Good-night, my lord ! 

Bru. Good-night, good brother ! 

Tit. Mes. Good-night, lord Brutus ! 

Bru. Farewell, every one ! [Exeunt Cassius, Titinius, and Messala. 

Re-enter Lucius with the Gown. 

Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument ? 

Luc. Here in the tent. 

Bru. What ! thou speak'st drowsily ? 
Poor knave, I blame thee not : thou art o'erwatched. 
Call Claudius, and some other of my men : 
I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent. 

Luc. Varro and Claudius ! 

Enter Varro and Claudius. 

Var. Calls my lord ? 

Bru. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent, and sleep : 
It may be I shall raise you by and by 
On business to my brother Cassius. 

Var. So please you, we will stand, and watch your pleasure. 

Bru. I will not have it so : lie down, good su*s ; 
It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. 
Look, Lucius ! here's the book I sought for so : 
I put it in the pocket of my gown. [Servants lie down. 



I 



610 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Luc. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. 

Bru. Bear with me, good boy : I am much forgetful. 
Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes a while, 
And touch thy instrument a strain or two ? 

Luc. Ay, my lord, an't please you. 

Bru. It does, my boy : 
I trouble thee too much ; but thou art willing. 

Luc. It is my duty, sir. 

Bru. I should not urge thy duty past thy might : 
I know young bloods look for a time of rest. 

Luc. I have slept, my lord, already. 

Br\i. It is well done ; and thou shalt sleep again. 
I will not hold thee long : if I do live, 

I will be good to thee. \_Music and a song. 

This is a sleepy tune. — O murderous slumber ! 
Lay'st thou thy leaden mace upon my boy, 
That plays thee music ? — Gentle knave, good-night ! 
I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. 
If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument: 
I'll take it from thee ; and, good boy, good-night ! — 
Let me see, let me see : is not the leaf turned down 
Where I left reading ? Here it is, I think. [//e sits down. 

Enter the Ghost of Caesar. 

How ill this taper burns ! Ha ! who comes here ? 
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 
That shapes this monstrous apparition. 
It comes upon me. Art thou any thing ? 
Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil, 
That mak'st my blood cold, and my hair to stare ? 
Speak to me what thou art. 

Ghost. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. 

Bru. Why com'st thou ? 

Ghost. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. 

Bru. Well ; then I shall see thee again ? 

Ghost. Ay, at Philippi. [Ghost vanishes. 

Bru. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then. 
Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest : 
111 spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. — 
Boy ! Lucius ! — Varro ! — Claudius I Sirs, awake I — 
Claudius ! 

Luc. The strings, my lord, are false. 

Bru. He thinks he still is at his instrument. — 
Lucius, awake ! 

Luc. My lord I 

Bru. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out ? 

Luc. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. 

Bru. Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see any thing? 

Luc. Nothing, my lord. 

Bru. Sleep again, Lucius. — SiiTah, Claudius I 
Fellow thou ! awake 1 

Var. My lord ! 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAKB. 611 

Clau. My lord ! 

Bru. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep ? 

Var. Clau, Did we, my lord ? 

Bru, Ay : saw you any thing ? 

Var. No, my lord : I saw nothing. 

Clau. Nor I, my lord. 

Bru. Go, and commend me to my brother Cassius. 
Bid him set on his powers betimes before, 
And we will follow. 

Var. Clau, It shall be done, my lord. [Exeunt. 



ACT V. 

ScE2fE I. — The Plains of Pliilippi. 

Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army. 

Oct. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. 
You said the enemy would not come down, 
But keep the hills and upper regions. v 

It proves not so : their battles are at hand ; 
They mean to warn us at Philippi here, 
Answering before we do demand of them. 

Ant. Tut! I am in their bosoms, and I know ^ 
Wherefore they do it : they could be content 
To visit other places, and come down 
With fearful bravery, thinking by this face 
To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage ; 
But 'tis not so. 

Enter a Messenger. 

Mess. Prepare you, generals : 
The enemy comes on in gallant show ; 
Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, 
And something's to be done immediately. 

Ant. Octavius, lead your battle softly on 
Upon the left hand of the even field. 

Oct. Upon the right hand I ; keep thou the left. 

Ant. Why do you cross me in this exigent ? 

Oct. I do not cross you ; but I will do so. [^March 

Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army ; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, 

and others, 

Bru. They stand, and would have parley. 
Cas. Stand fast, Titinius : we must out and talk. 
Oct. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle ? 
Ant. No, Caesar : we will answer on their charge. 
Make forth : the generals would have some words. 
Oct. Stir not until the signal. 
Bru. AVords before blows : is it so, countrymen ? 
Oct. Not that we love words better, as you do. 
Bru. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. 



C12 ENGLISH LITERATUKE. 

Ant. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words: 
Witness the hole you made in Ciesar's heart, 
Crying, " Long live ! hall, CcBsar ! " 

Cas. Antony, 
The posture of your blows are yet unknown ; 
But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, 
And leave them honeyless. 

Ant. Not stingless too. 

Bru. Oh, yes I and soundless too ; 
For you have stolen their buzzing, Antony, 
And, very wisely, tlireat before you sting. 

Ant. Villains, you did not so when your vile daggers 
Hacked one another in the sides of Csesar : 
You showed your teeth like apes, and fawned like hounds, 
And bowed like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet ; 
Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind, 
Struck Ctesar on the neck. O you flatterers ! 

Cas. Flatterers I Now, Brutus, thank yourself: 
This tongue had not offended so to-day 
If Cassius might have ruled. 

Oct. Come, come, the cause : if arguing make us sweat. 
The proof of it will turn to redder drops. 
Look ! 

I draw a SAvord against conspirators : 
When think you that the sword goes up again ? 
Never till Ca3sar's three and twenty wounds 
Be well avenged, or till another Ca?sar 
Have added slaughter to the sv/ord of traitors. 

Bru. Csesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands 
Unless thou bring'st them with thee. 

Oct. So I hope ; 
I was not born to die on Brutus' sword. 

Bru. Oh ! if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, 
Young man, thou couldst not die more honorable. 

Cas. A peevish schoolboy, worthless of such honor, 
Joined with a masker and a reveler. 

A nt. Old Cassius still ! 

Oct. Come, Antony; away! — 
Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. 
If you dare fight to-day, come to the field ; 

If not, when you have stomachs. [Exeunt Octavius, Axtony, and 

their Army. 

Cas. Why now, blow, wind ; swell, billow ; and swim, bark I 
Tlie storm is up, and all is on the hazard. 

Bru. Ho ! Lucilius ; hark 1 a word Avith you. 

Lucil. My lord 1 [Brutus and Lucilius converse apart. 

Cas. Messala! 

Mes. What says my general ? 

Cas. Messala, 
Tliis is my birthday ; as this very day 
Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala. 
Be thou my witness, that against my will, 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEARE. 613 

As Pompey was, am I compelled to set 

Upon one battle all our liberties. 

You know that I held Epicurus *fetrong, 

And his opinion : now I change my mind, 

And partly credit things that do presage. 

Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign 

Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perched, 

Gorging and feeding irom our soldiers' hands ; 

Who to Philippi here consorted us : 

This morning are they fled away, and gone ; 

And in their stead do ravens, crows, and kites 

Fly o'er our heads, and downward look on us, 

As we were sickly prey : their shadows seem 

A canopy most fatal, under which 

Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. 

Mes. Believe not so. 

Cas. I but believe it partly ; 
For I am fresh of spirit, and resolved 
To meet all perils very constantly. 

Bru. Even so, Lucilius. 

Cas. Now, most noble Brutus, 
The gods to-day stand friendly, that we may. 
Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age. 
But, since the aifai»s of men rest still uncertain. 
Let's reason with the worst that may befall. 
If we do lose this battle, then is this 
The very last time we shall speak together: 
What are you then determined to do? 

Bru. Even by the rule of that philosophy 
By which I did blame Cato for the death 
Which he did give himself, — I know not how, 
But I do find it cowardly and vile, 
For fear of what might fall, so to prevent 
The term of life, — arming myself with patience 
To stay the providence of those high powers 
That govern us below. 

Cas. Then, if Ave lose this battle. 
You are contented to be led in triumph 
Through the streets of Rome ? 

Bru. No, Cassius, no ! Think not, thou noble Roman, 
That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome : 
lie bears too great a mind. But this same day 
Must end that work the ides of March began ; 
And whether we shall meet again, I know not. 
Therefore our everlasting farewell take. 
For ever, and lor ever, farewell, Cassius ! 
If we do meet again, — why, we shall smile ; 
If not, — why, then, this parting was well made. 

Cas. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Brutus I 
If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed ; 
If not, 'tis true, this parting was well made. 

Bru. Why, then, lead on. Oh that a man might know 



f)l4 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The end of tliis day's business ere it come ! 

But it sufficetli that the day will end, 

And then the end is known. Come, ho I away ! [^Exeunt 

Scene II. — The Same. The Field of Battle. 
Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. 

Bru. Kide, ride, Messala, ride ! and give these bills 
Unto the legions on the other side. [Loud alarum. 

Let them set on at once ; for I perceive 
But cold demeanor in Octavius' wing, 
And sudden push gives them the overthrow. 
Ride, ride, Messala 1 let them all come down. [Exeunt, 

Scene III. — The Same. Another Part of the Field. 
Alarums. Enter Cassius and Titinius. 

Cas. Oh, look, Titinius, look ! the villains fly : 
Myself have to mine own turned enemy. 
This ensign here of mine was turning back : 
I slew the coward, and did take it from him. 

Tit. O Cassius ! Brutus gave the word too early ; 
Who, having some advantage on Octavius, 
Took it too eagerly : his soldiers fell to spoil, 
Whilst we by Antony are all inclosed. 

Enter Pindarus. 

Pin. Fly farther off, my lord, fly farther off! 
Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord ! 
Fly therefore, noble Cassius ! fly far off ! 

Cas. This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius I 
Are those my tents where I perceive the fire ? 

Tit. They are, my lord. 

Cas. Titinius, if thou lov'st me, 
Mount thou my horse, and hide thy spurs in him 
Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops, 
And here again ; that I may rest assured 
Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. 

Tit. I will be here again even with a thought. [Exit. 

Cas. Go, Pindarus ; get higher on that hill ; 
My sight was ever thick ; regard Titinius, 

And tell me what thou not'st about the field. [Exit PiNDARUS. 

This day I breathed first : time is come round ; 
And where I did begin, there shall I end : 
My life is run his compass. — Sirrah I what news ? 

Pin. [Above.'] O my lord 1 

Cas. What news ? 

Pin. Titinius is inclosed round about 
With horsemen that make to him on the spur ; 
Yet he spurs on. — Now they are almost on him: 
Now, Titinius ! — 
Now some light I Oh, he lights too : 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. 615 

He's ta'en ; and, hark ! [^ShouL 

They shout for joy. 

Cas. Come down ! behold no more. 
O coward that I am to live so long, 
To see my best friend ta'en before my face ! 

Enter Pindarus. 
Come hither, sirrah ! 
In Parthia did I take thee prisoner ; 
And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, 
That, whatsoever I did bid thee do. 
Thou shouldst attempt it. Come novr, keep thine oath ! 
Now be a freeman ; and with this good sword, 
That ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom. 
Stand not to answer : here, take thou the hilts ; 
And when my face is covered, as 'tis now, 
Guide thou the sword. Cfesar, thou art revenged 
Even with the sword that killed thee. [^Dies. 

Pin. So I am free ; yet would not so have been, 
Durst I have done my will. O Cassius ! 
Far from this country Pindarus shall run, 
Where never Koman shall take note of him. [^ExiL 

Re-enter Titinius loith Messala. 

Mes. It is but change, Titinius ; for Octavius 
Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power, 
As Cassius' legions are by Antony. 

Tit. These tidings will well comfort Cassius. 

Mes. Where did you leave him ? 

Tit. All disconsolate, 
With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. 

lies. Is not that he that lies upon the ground ? 

Tit. He lies not like the living. O my heart I 

Mes. Is not that he ? 

Tit. No : this was he, Messala ; 
But Cassius is no more. O setting sun ! 
As in thy red rays thou dost sink to-night, 
So in his red blood Cassius' day is set : 
The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone ; 
Clouds, dews, and dangers come ; our deeds are done : 
Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. 

Ales. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. 
O hateful Error ! Melancholy's child ! 
Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men 
The things that are not ? O Error ! soon conceived. 
Thou never com'st unto a happy birth, 
But kill'st the mother that engendered thee. 

Tit. What, Pindarus ! Where art thou, Pindarus? 

Mes. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet 
The noble Brutus, thrusting this report 
Into his ears : I may say, thrusting it ; 
For piercing steel, and darts envenomed, 



616 ENGLISH LITEKATXJKE. 

Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus 
As tidinfj;s of this !>ight. 

Tit. Hie you, Messala ; 
And I will seek for Findarus the while. — [Exit Messala. 

Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius ? 
Did 1 not meet thy friends ? and did not they 
Put on my brows this wreath of victory. 

And bid me give it thee ? Didst thou not hear their shouts ? 
Alas ! thou hast misconstrued every thing. 
But hold thee ; take this garland on thy brow : 
Thy Brutus bid me give it thee ; and I 
Will do his bidding. — Brutus, come apace, 
And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. — 
By your leave, gods (this is a Roman's part), 
Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart. \_Dies» 

Alarum. Re-enter Messala, loith Rrutus, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius, 
and LuciLius. 

Bru, Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie ? 

Mes. Lo, yonder 1 and Titinius mourning it. 

Bru. Titinius' face is upward. 

Cato. He is slain. 

Bru. O Julius CaBsar, thou art mighty yet I 
Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords 
In our own proper entrails. \Low alarums. 

Cato. Brave Titinius ! — 
Look, whe'r he have not crowned dead Cassius ! 

Bru. Are yet two Romans living such as these ? 
The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! 
It is impossible that ever Rome 

Should breed thy fellow. — Friends, I owe more tears 
To this dead man than you shall see me pay. — 
I shall find time, Cassius ; I shall find time. — 
Come, therefore, and to Thassos send his body : 
His funeral shall not be in our camp. 
Lest it discomfort us. — Lucilius, come ; 
And come, young Cato ; let us to the field. — 
Labeo and Flavins, set our battles on : 
'Tis three o'clock ; and, Romans, yet ere night 
We shall try fortune in a second fight. [Exeunt. 

Scene IV. — Another Pari of the Field. 

Alarum. Enter, fgliting. Soldiers of both Armies; then Bkutijs, Cato, Lucilius, 

and Others. 

Bru. Yet, countrymen, oh, yet, hold up your heads ! 

Cato. What bastard doth not ? Who will go with me ? 
I will proclaim my name about the field : 
I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho I 
A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend; 
I am the son of Mnrcns Cato, ho ! [Charges the enemy, 

Bru. And I am Brutus, ]\Iarcus Brutus, I ; 
Brutus, my country's friend : know me for Brutus. 

[Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered^ and falls. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPEAEE. €17 

Lucil. O young and noble Cato ! art thou down ? 
Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius ; 
And mayst be honored, being Cato's son. 

1 Sold. Yield, or thou diest. 

Lucil. Only I yield to die : 
Tliere is so much, that thou wilt kill me straight ; [^Offering money. 

Kill Brutus, and be honored in his death. 

1 Sold. We must not. A noble prisoner ! 

2 Sold. Room, ho 1 Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en. 

1 Sold. I'll tell the news. Here comes the general I 

Enter Antony. 

Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord I 

Ant. Where is he? 

Lucil. Safe, Antony : Brutus is safe enough. 
I dare assure thee that no enemy 
Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus : 
The gods defend him from so great a shame I 
When you do find him, or alive or dead, 
He will be found like Brutus, like himself. 

Ant. This is not Brutus, friend, but, I assure you, 
A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe ; 
Give him all kindness : I had rather have 
Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, 
And see whe'r Brutus be alive or dead ; 
And bring us word unto Octavius' tent 
How every thing is chanced. \_Exeunt. 

Scene V. — Another Pari of the Field. 
Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, ctm/Volumnius. 

Bru. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. 

Cli. Statilius showed the torchlight ; but, my lord, 
He came not back : he is or ta'en or slain. 

Bru. Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word : 
It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus ! [ Whispering. 

Cn. What ! I my lord ? No, not for all the world I 

Bru. Peace, then ! no words. 

Cli. I'll rather kill myself. 

Bru. Hark thee, Dardanius ! [ WJdspers liim. 

Dar. Shall I do such a deed ? 

Cli. O Dardanius I 

Dar. O Clitus ! 

Cli. AVhat ill request did Brutus make to thee ? 

Dar. To kill him, Clitus. Look ! he meditates. 

Cli. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, 
That it runs over even at his eyes. 

Bru. Come hither, good Volumnius : list a word. 

Vol. What says my lord ? 

Bru. Why, this, Volumnius : 
The ghost of Caesar halh appeared to me 
Two several times by night : at Sardis, once ; 



618 ENGLISH LITEEATURE. 

And this last niglit, liere in Pliilippi fields. 
I know my hour is come. 

Vol. Not so, my lord. 

Bru. Nay, I am sm-e it is, Volumnius. 
Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes ; 

Our enemies have beat us to the pit : [iow alarums. 

It is more worthy to leap in ourselves 
Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, 
Thou know'st that we two went to school together: 
Even for that our love of old, I prithee, 
Hold thou my sword-hilts whilst I run on it. 

Vol. That's not an office for a friend, my lord. \_Alarum still 

Cli. Fly, fly, my lord ! there is no tarrying here. 

Bru. Farewell to you, — and you, — and you, Volumnius ! — 
Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep : 
Farewell to thee too, Strato ! — Countrymen, 
My heart doth joy, that yet in all my life 
I tbund no man but he was true to me. 
I shall have glory by this losing day 
More than Octavius and Mark Antony 
By this vile conquest shall attain unto. 
So fare you well at once ! for Brutus' tongue 
Hath almost ended his life's history. 
Night hangs upon mine eyes ; my bones would rest, 
That have but labored to attain this hour. 

[Alarum. Cry within, " Fly, fly, fly ! " 

Cli. Fly, my lord! fly! 

Bru. Hence 1 I will follow thee. — 

\_Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius. 
I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. 
Thou art a fellow of a good respect ; 
Thy life hath had some smatch of honor in it : 
Hold, then, my sword, and turn away thy face 
While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato ? 

Stra. Give me your hand first : fare you well, my lord ! 

Bru. Farewell, good Strato ! — Caesar, now be still : 
I killed not thee with half so good a will. 

\_He runs on Ms sword, and dies. 

Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antojjy, Messala, Lucilius, and their 

Army. 

Oct. AVliat man is that ? 

Mes. My master's man. — Strato, where is thy master ? 

Stra. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala i 
The conquerors can but make a fire of him ; 
For Brutus only overcame himself; 
And no man else hath honor by his death. 

Lucil. So Brutus should be found. — I thank thee, Brutus, 
That thou hast proved Lucilius' saying true. 

Oct. All that served Brutus, I will entertain them. — 
Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me ? 

Stra. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 619 

Oct. Do so, good Messala. 

Mes. How died my master, Strato ? 

Stra. I held the sword, and he did run on it. 

Mes. Octavius, then take him to follow thee, 
That did the latest service to my master. 

Ant. This was the noblest Roman of them all. 
All the conspirators, save only he, 
Did that they did in envy of great Cassar : 
He only, in a general honest thought, 
And common good to all, made one of them. 
His life was gentle ; and the elements 
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up, 
And say to all the world, " This ivas a man ! " 

Oct. According to his virtue let us use him, 
With all respect and rites of burial. 
Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie. 
Most like a soldier, ordered honorably. — 
So call the field to rest ; and let's away 
To part the glories of this happy day. \_Exeunt 



EDMUND SPENSER 

1553-1599. 

" Shepheard's Calender; " " Colin Clouts come Home Again: " " Epithalinion ; " 
"View of the State of Ireland; " and his greatest work, — " The Faerie Queene." 
"The Faerie Queene," written in what is called the Spenserian stanza, was intended 
to "fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline." Of the 
twelve books planned originally, " Foashioning XII. Morall Virtues," there were 
only six written. Hazlitt says, " Spenser excels in the two qualities in which Chau- 
cer is most deficient, — invention and fancy. The invention shown in his allegori- 
cal personages is endless, as the fancy shown in his description of them is gorgeous 
and delightful. He is the poet of romance. He describes things as in a splendid 
and voluptuous dream." 



TEE KNIGHT AND THE LADY. 



A GENTLE Knight was pricking on the plaine, 
Ycladd in mightie armes and silver shielde. 
Wherein old dints of deepe woundes did remaine, 
The cruel markes of many a bloody fielde ; 
Yet armes till that time did he never wield : 
His angry steede did chide his foming bitt, 
As much disdayning to the curbe to yield. 
Full iolly knight he seemed, and faire did sitt. 
As one for knightly giusts^ and fierce encounters fitt. 

I Toumamenta. 



620 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 



II. 

And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, 
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, 
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore, 
And dead, as living ever, him ador'd : 
Upon his shield the like was also scor'd, 
For soveraine hope, whicli in his helpe he had. 
Right, faithfull, true he was in deede and word ; 
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad ; 
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.^ 



Upon a great adventure he was bond, 
That greatest Gloriana to him gave, 
(That greatest glorious queene of Faerie lond,) 
To winne him worshippe, and her grace to have ; 
Which of all earthly thinges he most did crave : 
And ever, as he rode, his hart did earne ^ 
To prove his puissance in battell brave 
Upon his foe, and his new force to learne, — 
Upon his foe, a Dragon horrible and stearne. 

IV. 

A lovely Ladle rode him faire beside, 
Upon a lowly asse more white then snow ; 
Yet she much whiter ; but the same did hide 
Under a vele, that whimpled* was full low ; 
And over all a blacke stole shee did throw. 
As one that inly mournd, so was she sad, 
And heavie sate upon her palfrey slow ; 
Seemed in heart some hidden care she had ; 
And by her in a line a milke-white lamb she lad. 

V. 

So pure and innocent as that same lambe 
She was in life and every vertuous lore ; 
And by descent from royall lynage came 
Of ancient kinges and queenes that had of yore 
Their scepters stretcht from east to westerne shore, 
And all the world in their subjection held, 
Till that infernal Feend with fbule uprore 
Forwasted* all their land, and them expeld ; 
Whom to avenge, she had this Knight from far compeld. 



Behind her faiTe away a Dwarfe did lag, 

That lasie seemd, in being ever last. 

Or wearied with bearing of her bag 

Of needments at his backe. Thus as they past, 

1 Dreaded. * Yearn. * Gathered, or plaited. * Much wasted. 



EDMUND SPENSER. 621 

The day with cloudes was suddeine overcast, 
And angry love an hideous stornie of raine 
Did poure into liis lemans lap so fast, 
That everie wight to slirowd it did constrain ; 
And this faire couple eke to shroud themselves were fain. 

VII. 

Enforst to seeke some covert nigh at hand, 
Ashadie grove not farr away they spide, 
That promist ayde the tempest to withstand ; 
Whose loftie trees, yclad with sommers pride, 
Did spred so broad, that heavens light did hide, 
Not perceable with power of any starr ; 
And all within were pathes and alleles wide, 
With footing worne, and leading inward farr: 
Faire harbour that them seems ; so in they entred ar. 

VIII. 

And foorth they passe, with pleasure forward led, 
loying to heare the birdes sweete harmony. 
Which, therein shrouded from the tempest dred, 
Seemd in their song to scorne the cruell sky. 
Much can they praise the trees so straight and hy, — 
The sayling pine ; the cedar, proud and tall ; 
The vine-propp elrae ; the poplar, never dry ; 
The builder oake, sole king of fbrrests all ; 
The aspine, good for staves ; the cypresse funeral! ; 

IX. 

The laurell, meed of mightie conquerours 
And poets sage ; the fii-re, that weepeth still ; 
The willow, worne of forlorne paramours ; 
The eugh,* obedient to the benders will ; 
The birch, for shaftes ; the sallow, for the mill ; 
The mirrhe, sweete-bleeding in the bitter wound ; 
The warlike beech ; the ash, for nothing ill ; 
The fruitfuU olive ; and the platane round : 
The carver holme ; the maple, seeldom inward sound. 



Led with delight, they thus beguile the way 
Untill the blustering storme is overblowne ; 
When, weening to returne whence they did stray, 
They can not fiude that path which first was showne, 
But wander to and fro in waies unknowne, — 
Furthest from end then, when they neerest weene, 
Tliat makes them doubt their Avits be not their owne : 
So many pathes, so many turnings scene, 
That, which of them to take, in diverse doubt they been. 

Faerie Queene, Boole I., Canto I. 
I Yew. 



622 ENGLISH LITERATUEE. 



OTHER WIIITEIIS OF DISTINCTIOK 

Roger Ascham. — 1515-1568. The celebrated tutor of Queen Elizabeth. 
Author of a work on Germany, and " Toxophilus," in the preface of which he 
apologizes for writing it in English. His greatest work is " The Schoolmaster." 

George BucHA^^AN. — 1506-1582. Learned author of much Latin verse and 
prose, and of "The Chameleon," in Scotch. 

Sir Philip Sidney. — 1554-1586. The gallant soldier; author of the Countess 
of Pembroke's "Arcadia," "Defense of Poesie," and many beautiful sonnets. 

Richard Hooker. — 1553-1600. "Laws of Ecclesiastical Polity," "the first 
book of which," Hallam says, " is at this day one of the masterpieces of English 
eloquence." 

Thomas Sackville. — 1536-1608. Joint author, with Thomas Norton, of 
"Gorboduc," a five-uct tragedy, with chorus; "The Mirrour of Magistrates," of 
which he wrote " The Induction; " and " Story of the Duke of Buckingham." 

Sir Walter Raleigh. — 1552-1618. Gallant soldier and accomplished courtier; 
author of " History of the World," " Narrative of a Cruise to Guiana," and other 
works in prose; also cultivated poetry somewhat. 

Ben Jonson. — 1574-1637. Celebrated English dramatist, the friend of Shak- 
speare; author of "Catiline" and " Sejanus," tragedies; "Every Man in his 
Humor," "The Alchemist," and "Volpone," comedies; and many other plays, 
minor poems, and prose-writings. On his tombstone are the words, " rare Ben 
Jonson ! " 

Thomas Tusser. — 1523 -1580 ? " Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry." 

Robert Greene. — 1560? -1592. Occupies a high rank among early English 
dramatists. " A Groat's Worth of Wit bought with a Million of Repentance." 

Robert Southwell. — 1560-1595. "St. Peter's Complaint," "Mary Magda- 
lene's Funeral Te.irs," and other poems. 

Samuel Daniel. — 1562-1619. " Musophilus," " A History of the Wars between 
the Houses of York and Lancaster." 

Michael Drayton. — 1563-1631. "Polyolbion," " The Shepherd's Garland," 
"Barons' Wars," "England's Heroical Epistles," "Nymphidia," and others. 

Christopher Marlowe. — 1563? -1593. Wrote several plays in excellent blank 
vei'se, — " Tamburlaine the Gx-eat," " Life and Death of Dr. Faiistus," " The Jew of 
Malta," and " Edward HL" 

Sir Henry Wotton. — 1568-1639. " Elements of Architecture ; " " The State 
of Christendom; " and " Reliquiae Wottonianse," j)ublished after his death. 

Francis Beaumont. — 1586-1615. John Fletcher. — 1576-1625. Wrote 
fifty-two tragedies and comedies. More popular than Shakspeare in their day, and 
still belong to the English classics. 

Phineas Fletcher. — 1584-1650. " The Purple Island." 

Giles Fletcher. — " Christ's Victory and Triumph." 

Philip Massinger.-— 1584-1640. Of his many plays, eighteen live; and "A 
New Way to pay Old Debts " is still acted. 

William Drummond. — 1585-1649. " The Flowers of Zion," " Tears on the 
Death of Maeliades," " The River of Forth Feasting," and sonnets. 

John Ford, — 1586-1639. "Brother and Sister," "Love's Sacrifice," and 
" The Broken Heart," deep tragedies; " Perkin Warbeck," historical pluy. 

Thomas Carew. — 1589-1639. " Coelum Britannicum," and many Ij-rics. 

WilliA3I Browne. — 1590 -1645. " Britannia's Pastorals," and other works. 

Robert Herrick. — 1591 -1674. "To Blossoms," "To Daffodils," "Gather 
the Rosebuds while Ye may," are some of the delightful lyrics from his graceful 



OTHEB WEITERS OF DISTINCTION. 623 

Francis Quakles. — 1592-1644. "Emblems," "Divine Fancies," "Enchiri- 
dion." 

Geokge Herbert. — 1593-1632. " The Temple," a collection of sacred poems. 

James Shirley. — 1590-1666. "Writer of plays. 

EiCHARD Crashaw. — ?-1650. Religious poetry, and translations. 

Sir John Suckling. — 1009-1641. Lyrist. " Ballad on a Wedding." 

Thomas Wilson. " System of Rhetoric and Logic," the first critical work upon 
the English language. 

William Camden. — 1551-1623. "Britannia," narratives of Queen Elizabeth's 
reign, and the Gunpowder Plot, iu Latin. 

Richard Hakll^t. — 1553-1616. "Voyages and Discoveries of the English 
Nation," and translations of Leo's " Africa," and Peter Martyr's " West Indies." 

Samuel Purchas. — 1577-1628. " Purchas his Pilgi-imes," and"Purchas his 
Pilgrimeage." 

King James I. — 1566-1625. Royal pedant. " Dgemonologie," " Basilicon 
Doron," " Counterblasts to Tobacco," aiad some English and Latin poems. 

Joseph Hall. — 1574-1656. "Contemplations on Historical Passages of the 
Old and New Testaments," " Occasional Meditations," sermons, and other writings. 

Robert Burton. — 1578-1640. Author of celebrated "Aiiatomy of Melan- 
choly." 

Thomas Dekker. — 1638? "The Gull's Hornbook," satirical; and more than 
twenty plays. 

Lord Herbert. — 1581-1648. " De Veritate," " Life and Reign of Henry VHI.,'* 
and memoirs of his own life. 

James Ussher. — 1581 -1656. " The Power of the Prince, and Obedience of the 
Subject;" "Annals from the Creation to the Fall of Jerusalem;" aud other works. 

John Selden. — 1584-1654. "A Treatise on Titles of Honor," "History of 
Tithes." Called by Milton " the chief of learned men reputed iu the land." 

Thomas Hobbes. — 1588-1679. " De Give ; " " Human Nature ; " " De Corpore 
Politico ; " his famous work, " Leviathan ; " "A Translation of Homer; " " Elements 
of Philosophy; " and other works. 

IzAAK Walton. — 1593-1683. " The Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man's 
Recreation;" the Lives of Hooker, Donne, Wotton, and others. 

James Howell. — 1596-1666. " Familiar Letters," and about forty works. 

Sir Thomas More. — 1480-1535. "Life and Reign of Edward V.," the first 
English history deserving the name, and earliest classical English prose. His most 
famous work "is his " Utopia," describing a perfect republic. Several theological 
works. 

William TynDxVLe.— 1477? -1536. Translated New Testament into English, 
" English Version of the Book of Jonah," and other Avorks. 

Thomas Cranmer. — 1489-1556. The compiling of " The Book of Common 
Prayer" is chiefly due to Cranmer; " Twelve Homilies," and the " Great Bible." 

Henry Howard (Earl of Surrey). — 1516-1547. "Translation of the Second 
and Fom-th Books of the ^neid." Is said to have written the first English sonnets. 

Robert Henryson. — Died 1507 ? Poet. " Testament of Fair Cresseide," ballad 
of "Robin and Makyiie," '-The Moral Fables of yEsop," "The Garment of Gude 
Ladyes," and other works. 

William Dunbar.— 1460-1520? "The Thistle and the Rose," "The Golden 
Terge," "The Dance of the Seven Deadly Sins," and other poems. Called by Sir 
Walter Scott " the first of Scottish poets." 

Gawin Douglas. — 1474?-1522? The first translation, a Latin classic, Virgil's 
".^neid," into the Scottish dialect; " King Hart ; " and " The Palace of Honor." 

Alexander Barclay. — 1522. " The Ship of Fools," a satirical allegory. 

Stephen Hawes. " Pastime of Pleasure." Favorite of Henry VII. 

John Skelton. — ?-1529. Satirist. " Colin Clout." 

John Heywood. " Interludes," satires of the clergy. 



624 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

Sir Thomas Wyatt. — 1503-1541. Remarkable for his scholarship, wit, and 
verse. 

Sir David Lindsay. — 1490 ?-1557. "Play of the Three Estate^:," "Squire 
Meldrum," last of the metrical romances; " The Monarchie," and " Complaynt of 
the King's Papingo." 

Nicholas Ud all. ~ 1506 ?-155r. Author of "Ralph Royster Doyster," the 
earliest existing English comedy, written about 1550. 

John Fisher. — 1459-1535. Sermons. 

Lord Berners.— Translated the chronicles of " Jean Froissart.'* 

Robert Fabyan.— ?-1512. " Concordance of Stories," a chronicle of English 
history. 

Edward Hall. — ?-1547. " History of the Houses of York and Lancaster." 

Sir Thomas Elyot. — ?-1546. " The Castle of Health," " The Governor," and a 
Latin and English dictionary. His views on education were greatly in advance of 
his time. 

John Bellenden. Translated (1536) Hector Boece's "History of Scotland," 
earliest existing Scottish prose literature; " First Five Books of Livy f" besides letters 
and poems. The first original work in Scotch prose was published in 1548. 

John Leland. — ?-1552. " Itinerary" and " Collectanea." First English anti- 
quary of note. 

Hugh Latimer. — 1472 ? -1555. Sermons and letters. 

Miles Covekdale. — 1487-1568. The first printed translation of the whole 
Bible ; also assisted in Cranmer's and the Geneva translations. 

John Bale, — 1495-1563. "Lives of Eminent Writers of Great Britain," in 
Latin, — first author, Japheth; "Chronicle of Lord Cobham's Trial and Death;" 
scriptural dramas. 

John Knox. — 1505 -1572. " History of the Scottish Reformation," himself the 
leader. 

George Cavendish. — ?-1557. " Life of Cardinal Woolsey." 

Sir John Cheke. — 1514-1557. « The Hurt of Sedition." 

John Fox. — 1517-1587. Author of the celebrated work, "Acts and Monu- 
ments of the Church," or " Fox's Book of Martyrs." 

William Caxton. — 1412-1491. At the age of fifty-nine, this remarkable 
man went to Cologne to learn the printer's trade; and there finished, in 1471, 
the translation of "a French work by Raoul le Fevre, " The History of Troy," 
the first English book from any press. Soon after, having returned to England, 
was issued from the Westminster press its earliest work, '' The Game and Playe 
of the Chesse, translated out of the French, fynysshed the last day of Marche, 
1474." The first English book with woodcut illustrations was a second edition 
of the same. Caxton wrote or translated and printed sixty-five works. The in- 
dustry necessary to accomplish so much after an active life of threescore years is 
the more Avonderfnl when we consider that he combined within himself the offices 
of author, ink-maker, compositor, pressman, proof-reader, binder, publisher, and 
bookseller. 

WvNKYN DE Worde, assistant and successor of Caxton, printed four hundred 
and eight works. Richard Pynson, another assistant, printed two hundred and 
twelve works. 



GEOFFREY CHAUCER. 625 

GEOFFREY CHAUCER 

1328? -1400. 

Called " the morning-star of English poetry." Famous author of " The Can- 
terbury Tales," in which some thirty pilgrims to the tomb of Tliomas a Becket are 
to telf two stories each, going and returning; the poems being plaimed like " The 
Decameron " of Boccaccio. Only twenty-four are told ; two of whicli, " The Tale of 
]\relibeus" and *' The Persones Tale," are in prose; in which style of writing he 
also excelled. " The Court of Love," " Troilus and Ci-esseide," " Romaunt of Love," 
*' The House of Fame," "The Legende of Goode Womeii," '* Tiie Flour and tiie 
Lefe," and "The Testament of Love," in prose, are his principal pieces. Hallam 
ranks him one of the thi-ee great poets of the middle ages, with Dante and Petrarch. 



FROM THE PROLOGUE, 
THE PARSON. 

A GOOD man was ther of religioun, 
And was a pore persoun of a toun ; 
But riclie he was of holy thought aud werk : 
He was also a lerned man, a clerk, 
That Cristes gospel truly wolde preche : 
His parischens devoutly would he teche. 
Benigne he was, and wondur diligent, 
And in adversite ful pacient. 

Wyd was his parisch, and houses fer asondur ; 

But he ne lafte not for reyn ne thondur, 

In sicknesse ne in meschief to visite 

The ferrest in his parische, moche and lite,* 

Uppon his feet, and in his hond a staf. 

This noble ensample unto his scheep he gaf, — 

That ferst he wroughte, and after that he taughte. 

Out of the gospel he tho^ wordes caughte, — 

That, if gold ruste, what schulde yren doo? 

For, if a priest be foul on whom we truste, 

No wondur is a lewid man^ to ruste. 

To drawe folk to heven by fairnesse, 
By good ensample, was his busynesse ; 
But it were ©ny persone obstinat, 
What so he were of high or lowe estat, 
Him wolde he snybbe scharply for the nones.* 
A bettre priest I trowe ther nowher non is. 
He waytud after no pomp ne reverence ; 
Ne maked him a spiced conscience : 
But Cristes love, and his apostles twelve. 
He taught ; and ferst he folwed it hiraselve I 

1 Great and smalL * Those. 3 A layman. * NoQep. 

40 



626 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 






OTHER DISTINGUISHED AUTHOES. 

John De Wycliffe. — 1324 ? -1384. Celebrated English refoiiner. Author of 
" Trialogus " and many other Latin works, and the first English version of the 
whole Bible. 

John Gower. — 1325? -1408, Poet-friend of Chaucer, but of far less renown. 
"Speculum Meditantis" in French (no copy preserved), "Vox Clamantis" in 
Latin, and " Confessio Amantis" principally in English; tlie last two preserved. 

KiKG James I. of Scotland. — 1394-1437. "The King's Quhair" (Quire), a poem 
of about fourteen hundred lines, inspired by his love for Joan Beaufort ; and other 
shorter poems. 

Laurence Minot. According to Dr. Craik, the earliest writer of English verse 
deserving the name of poet. Ten poems are preserved, celebrating the battles of 
Edward III. 

Robert Langlande. — 1300? Author of "The Vision of Piers (Peter) 
Ploughman " and "Pierce Plowman's Crede," two poems, satirical, of the clergy 
and the times. 

A few lines from " Piers Ploughman " will illustrate the alliterative form of 
poetry, having the initial instead of the terminal assonance : — 

In a somer seson, 
Whan softe was the sonne, 
I shoop^ me into shroudes 
As I a sheep2 weere ; 
In habite as an h eremite 
Unholy of workes, 
Wente wide in this world 
Wondi'es to here. 
Ac^ on a May ]\Iorwenynge, 
On Malvern hilles, 
Mebefelaferly:* 
Of fairye me thoghte 
I was wery for-wandred, 
And wente me to reste 
Under a brood bank 
By a bournes^ syde ; 
And as I lay and lenede, 
And loked on the Avatres, 
I slombred into a slepyng. 
It sweyed so murye.^ 

John Barbour. — Boi-n 1316, or 1330. " The Bruce," a Scottish epic. 

Andrew Wyntoun. — 1350 ? " An Orygj'nale Cronykil of Scotland," from the 
creation to 1408. 

Thomas Occleve. — Writer of multitudinous verses, to be "jndged by quantity i 
rather than quality." 

John Lydgate. — " History of Thebes," " Fall of Princes," and " History of 
the Siege of Troy." 

Blind Harry. — " The Wallace," an epic of twelve thousand lines. 

John De Trevisa. — Translated, about 1387, " The Polychronicon " and 
other Latin works. 

Sir John Fortescue. — Celebrated author of " De Lnndibus Legnm Angliae" 
and of " The Difference between an Absolute and a Limited Monarchy." 

1 Shaped. 2 Shepherd, » And. * Wonder. 6 Stream, 6 Pleasant. 



LATIN AND OTHER WRITERS. 627 



LATIN, SAXON-ENGLISH, AND NORMAN- 
rHENCH WRITERS. 

1066-1307. 

" The Saxon Chronicle" is continued to 1154; but the two principal works of the 
Saxon-English literature are Layamox's translation or imitation of Wage's '' Brut," 
and " The Ormulum," written by 0km, or Orjiin, a metrical paraphrase of Scrip- 
ture. 

Wace, who died about 1184, is the most celebrated of the Norman-French poets. 
His principal poems are "Brut d'Angleterre " and " Koman de Rou," a translation 
of Geoffrey's " History of Britain " into verse, and a history of the dukes of Nor- 
mandy to Henry H. 

Geoffkey Gaimar wrote the " Histori' of the Angles," in Norman-French. The 
NoiTuan-French was the parent of the modern French tongue. Its poets, called 
Trouveres, or Trouveurs, were the authors of the poems called " Fabliaux" and the 
Anglo-Norman romances, of which the most remarkable are those relating to King 
Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, of Avhom we learn something in "The 
Idylls of the King." But Latin was the language of the Church and the learned, 
and of the prose and poetry of the age. 

Josephus Iscanus, or Joseph of Exetek, Avrote two epic poems, — "Antiocheis," 
a story of the third crusade, almost entirely lost; and " The Trojan War," which is 
said to be remai-kable for its pure and harmonious Latin. " The Confession of 
Golias," a drinking-song in rhyming Latin, satirical against the clergy, Avas written 
by Walter Mopes. 

IxGULPHUS. " History of the Abbey of Croyland." 

Ordexcus Vilatis. " Valuable Church History, from the Creation to 1141." 

William of MxVlmesbury. " History of the English Kings, from the Saxons to 
1142." 

Geoffrey of Monmouth. " History of the Britons," with its celebrated legends 
of the Celts. 

Gerald Barry, Benedict, Roger de Hoveden, Hexry of Huntingdon, 
Gervase of Tilbury, and Matthew Paris, were historians and chroniclers. 

There is no end to the wonderful fictions of this period. The most remarkable 
collection, perhaps, is the " Gesta ffomanorum," the great source of inspiration of 
the earlier poets. The story of the caskets, pound of flesh, and evasion of payment, 
in " The ]\rerchant of Venice," are found in the •' Gesta;" also the specter-legend 
of Scott's "Marmion," of " The Three Black Crows," and other well-known jests. 



LATIN, CELTIC, AND ANGLO-SAXON 
WRITERS. 

449-1066. 

In the fifth century, there were four languages used in the British isles: — 

1. Latin, the langiuige of the Church and the learned. 

2. The Erse, or Gaelic, from which the Scottish and Irish. 

3. The Cymric, the language of the Ancient Britons, preserved in the WelsL 

4. The Anglo-Saxon, the backbone of the English. 



628 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The poetic legends and heroic deeds of the Saxons were sung in cfimp, and at the 
festive board, iu alliterative verse, — a style borrowed from the Northmen, — by the 
Gleeman, or ^Minstrel. 

The romance of" Beowulf," a poem of six thousand lines, relates the incredible 
exploits and dangers of a Danish soldier. 

The " Paraphrase " of C.ed:mon, who was inspired in a dream to sing (about 
680), is regarded as one of the oldest specimens of Anglo-Saxon existing, — espe- 
cially the story of the Creation and Fall. 

" The Battle of Finsborough," " The Traveler's Song," " Judith," and " Athel- 
stane's Song of Victory," iu " The Chronicle " of 938, are other Anglo-Saxon remains. 

King Alfred, born 848, is the most distinguished writea- of Anglo-Saxon prose. 
He gave his people translations, with additions of his own thought and knowledge, 
of Bede's "Church History," Pope Gregory's "Duties of the Clergy," Oro«ius' 
"Ancient History," Boethius " On the Consolation of Philosophy," and some of the 
" Soliloquies " of St. Augustine of Hippo. 

Alfric (died 1008) wrote eighty "Homilies" for the common people, " Latin 
Grammar," " Glossary," and " Book of Conversation." 

" The Saxon Chi-onicle " is supposed to have been commenced by Plegmuxd, 
primate of Alfred's time, written in the monasteries, bearing different 'dates, closing 
with 1154. King Alfred's Will, «ome homilies, and a few other works, are all that re- 
main of Anglo-Saxon prose. 

The most important of the Latin authors and their numerous works are, — 

Aldhelm. — Author of a book of riddles, and much poor Latin prose and 
verse. 

Bede. — The celebrated author of " The History of the Anglo-Saxon Church," 
and forty other theological and scientific works; also translation of John's Gospel 
into Anglo-Saxon. 

Alcuin. — The learned friend and companion of Charlemagne. Wrote much on 
theology and church history. 

Erigena (John Scotus). — An Irishman, the Irish being called Scots until about 
1600, when the name was transferred to the Noith Britons. Was one of the most 
learned men of his time. Author of works on " Predestination," " The Eucharist," 
and " On the Division of Nature." 

DuNSTAN. — The famous Archbishop of Canterburj'- : wrote many learned theolo- 
gical works. 

Of the Celtic writers, Gild as, Nexxius, and St. Columbaxus, wrote also in Latin. 
In Wales, the poems of Taliesix, Meklix, and other bards of the sixth century, are 
extaut. Of the Scottish Gaelic, the poems of Ossiax — " Fingal " and " Temora " — 
are considered forgeries, committed by the pretended translator, James ilACPHEUSOX, 
about 1760. Buf Ireland claims the oldest specimens of all literature in modem 
Europe. "-The Annals," scraps of contemporary history in Irish verse from the 
fifth century, "The Psalter of Cashel," and "The Annals of Tigernach and of 
the Four Masters of Ulster," belong to the ninth and eleventh centuries. 



SIR JOHN DE MANDEYILLE. 

1300? -1372. 

Was the earliest writer of an English prose-work that has been presei-ved. He 
wrote a narrative of his travel*, in Latin; afterwards translated by himself 
into French, then into English. He was a traveler the most of his life; and his 
narrative abounds in marvelous stories. We give a short extract from — 



SOUKCES OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 629 



THE PROLOGUE. 

AxD for als moche as it is longe tyme passed, that ther was no 
generalle Passage lie Vj^age over the See ; and many Men desiren 
for to here speke of the holy Lond, and han^ thereof gret Sohice 
and Comfort ; I John Maundevylle, Knyght, alle be it I be not 
worthi, that was born in Englond, in the Town of Seynt Albones, 
passed the See, in the Zeer of our Lord Jesu Crist MCCCXXII, 
in the Day of Seynt Michelle ; and hidre to^ have been longe 
tyme over the See, and have seyn and gon thorghe manj^e dyverse 
Londes, and many Provynces and Kingdomes and lies, and have 
passed thorghe Tartarye, Percye, Ermonye^ the litylle and the 
grete ; thorghe Lybye, Caldee and a gret partie of Ethiope ; 
thorghe Amazoyne, Inde the lasse and the more, a gret partie j 
and thorghe out many othere lies, that ben abouten Inde ; where 
dwellen many dyverse Polkes, and of dyverse Maneres and 
Lawes, and of dj^ verse Schappes of men. Of whiche Londes and 
lies, I schalle speke more pleynly hereaftre. And I schalle devise 
zou sum partie of thinges that there ben, whan time schalle ben, 
aftre it may best come to my mynde ; and specj^ally for hem, that 
wylle and are in purpos for to visite the Holy Citee of Jerusalem, 
and the holy Places that are thereaboute. And I schalle telle 
the Weye, that tliei schulle holden thidre. Eor I have often 
tymes passed and ryden the way, with gode Companye of many 
Lordes : God be thonked. 

And zee schulle undirstonde, that I have put this Boke out of 
Latyn into Erensche, and translated it azen out of Erensche into 
Englyssche, that ever}^ Man of my ISTacioun may undirstonde it. 
But Lordes and Knyghtes and othere noble and worthi Men, 
that conne Latyn but litylle, and han ben bezonde the See, 
knowen and undirstonden, zif I erre in devisynge, or forzet^mge, 
or elles ; that thei mowe* redresse it and amende it. For thinges 
passed out of longe tyme from a Mannes mynde or from his syght, 
turnen sone in forzetynge : Because that Mjmde of Manne may 
not ben comprehended ne witheholden, for the Ereeltee of Man- 
kynde. 



SOURCES OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAQE. 

Modern English, in the formation of its words and grammati- 
cal structure of its sentences, dates from about A.D. 1500. Its 
vocabulary, of course, has been constantly increasing, from the 
adoption of foreign words and the growth of old and new sciences. 

1 Have, 2 Hitherto. 8 Armenia, * May. 



630 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

The limits of this work will not allow any reference to modern 
speculations and theories of the formation of language, nor of 
comparative philology, nor of the progress of written language 
from rude picture-writing and Egyptian hieroglyphics to its pres- 
ent character. For all these, the student must consult the pref- 
aces of the large dictionaries, and the works of modern philolo- 
gists, grammars, and encyclopaedias.* 



GRAMMAR. 

English grammar, as to its system of etymology and syntax, 
is Anglo-Saxon in its distinctive characteristics. It is simpler 
than the Anglo-Saxon, from having lost several inflectional ter- 
minations of words ; and its syntax could be reduced still more 
by abolishing case altogether, regarding all possessives as adjec- 
tives. ^' Our chief peculiarities of structure and of idiom are essen- 
tially Anglo-Saxon; while almost all the classes of words which 
it is the office of grammar to investigate are derived from that 
language. Thus the few inflections we have are all Anglo-Saxon. 
The English genitive, the general modes of forming the plural of 
nouns, and the terminations by which we express the compara- 
tive and superlative of adjectives (-er and -est) ; the inflections 
of the pronouns ; those of the second and third persons, present 
and imperfect, of the verbs ; the inflections of the preterites and 
participles of the verbs, whether regular or irregular; and the 
most frequent termination of our adverbs (-ly), — are all Anglo- 
Saxon. "J^he nouns, too, derived from Latin and Greek, receive 
the Anglo-Saxon terminations of the genitive and plural ; while 
the preterites and participles of verbs derived from the same 
sources take the Anglo-Saxon inflections. As to the parts of 
speech, those which occur most frequentl}^, and are individually 
of most importance, are almost wholly Saxon. Such are our arti- 
cles and definitives generally, — as *a, an, the, this, that, these, 
those, many, few, some, one, none;' the adjectives whose com- 
paratives and superlatives are irregularlj" formed; the separate 
words ^more' and 'most,' by which we express comparison as 
often as by distinct terminations; all our pronouns, — personal, 
possessive, relative, and interrogative ; nearly everj'^ one of our so- 
called irregular verbs, including all the auxiliaries, 'have, be, 
shall, will, may, can, must,' by which we express the force of the 

* Webster's, "Worcester's, Richardson's, "Walker's, and Johnson's Dictionaries ; Cham- 
bers', Rees', Edinburgh, and Metropolitan Encyclopaedias; Lectures of Max Miiller and 
of G. P. Marsh. 

Latham's "English Language;" "Diversions of Purley," by Tooke; "Study of 
"Words," by Trench j Crabb's " SynonymB; " Prof. Craik's Works ; Rask's " Anglo-Saxon 
Grammar." 



SOURCES OF THE EKGLTSH LANGUAGE. 631 

principal varieties of mood and tense ; all the adverbs most fre- 
quently employed; and the prepositions and conjunctions almost 
witliout exception." * 

The English language, like the Continental languages of Eu- 
rope, substitutes new forms of expression for inflections, and, as is 
reasonable to suppose, becomes more and more perfect as its gram- 
mar becomes simpler. 

THE DICTIONARY. 

The language derives its words from, — 

1. The Anglo-Saxon, — above twenty thousand. 

2. Latin and Greek, many of the latter coming through the 
Latin. 

3. French, other languages, and provincialisms. 

Erom the Anglo-Saxon come the wordsr, and parts of words, indi- 
cating relations ; also the adjectives, nouns, and verbs classed 
as irregular, the same being words of most common use in the lan- 
guage ; the names of objects of most frequent and striking oc- 
currence, — sun, moon, stars, land, water, wood, stream, hill, and 
dale ; horse, cow, and the most common animals and plants ; 
spring, summer, winter, light, darkness, heat, cold, rain, snow, 
thunder and lightning; sounds, postures, and motions of animal 
life. Specific terms render stjde more animated, forcible. Our 
specific terms are generally Anglo-Saxon. Color is Latin, as 
most ot our abstract terms are, or French ; but red, yellow, blue, 
wliite, black, green, and brown are Anglo-Saxon. Motion is 
Latin ; but leap, spring, stagger, slip, slide, glide, fall, walk, run, 
swim, ride, creep, crawl, and fly are Anglo-Saxon. Affection and 
animation are Latin ; but love, hate, hope, fear, gladness, sorrow, 
weeping, laugliter, smile, tear, sigh, groan, father, mother, man, 
wife, child, son, daugliter, kindred and friends, home, hearth, roof, 
fireside, and many other of the most touching words in the lan- 
guage, and most frequently on the tongue, are Anglo-Saxon, and, 
for the greater part, '•' the language of business, of the counting- 
house, the shop, the market, the street, the farm." The principal 
and most forcible language of invective, humor, satire, and pleas- 
antry, is Anglo-Saxon. 

From the Latin and French, it being difficult always to tell 
which, since the French itself is from the Latin, are coin (colo- 
nia), in Lincoln, Chester from castrum, monk, bishop, saint, min- 
ister, porch, cloister, mass, psalter, chalice, pall, candle, most gen- 
eral and abstract words, and many thousand terms of theology, 
metaphysics, and all the old and new sciences. The nomencla- 
tures of modern sciences manufacture much from the Greek. 

* Edinburgh Review, vol. Ixx., 1839. 



632 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

In the analysis of words, as a general rule, the prefixes, 

n, no, not, uii, negatives ; 

a, e, y, a (for an), he, en, and for, interims ; 

a, he, em, en, for, fore, gain, off, on, out, to, iin (an or on"), tin" 
der, up. With, relatives, are Anglo-Saxon, or of Teutonic origin. 

Trom Latin and Prench are 

in, i, il, im, ir, n, ne, non, negatives. 

Ad, a, ae, af, arj, al, am, an, aji, ar, as, at, with force of to ad- 
dition; ah, ahs, a, from; amhi, ainh, about; ante, ant, before; cir- 
cum, cis, con, co, cog, col, com, cor, coun, ivitJi ; contra, contro, 
counter; de, dis, di, dif; en, ex, e, ec, ef; extra; in, il, im, ir, en, 
em, indi, ind, infra, inter, intra, intro, enter, juxta ; ob, obs, oc, of, 
op, OS ; per, post, pre, prse, praeter, pro, j^ur ; re, red, retro ; se, 
sans, sine, sue, suf, sug, sum, sup, sub, subter, super, supra, sur; 
trans, tran, tra; ultra, ult, ulter, outr. 

From Greek are a, an, apo, aph, amphi, ana, an, anti, ant, 
antli ; cata, cat, cath ; dia, dea, de ; en, em, endo, ento, epi, ep, 
eph, ex, ec; hyper, hypo; meta, meth; para, par, pa, peri, pros; 
syn, sy, syl, sym. 

Examining the definitions, with the dictionary, of a few words 
having the same prefix, will fix the force of it securely in the pu- 
pil's memory. 

SUFFIXES. 

Of Kouis-s, — r, ar, er, or, ster, en, ess, et, let, kin, ling, ock, 
th, t, ing, head, hood, ness, dom, ship, son, burn, are from the 
mother-tongue. 

Latin and French : an, ean, ian, ine, ant, ent, or, er, eer, ary, 
at, ate, ee, ine ; ix, cle, cule, ule, age, ry, sign, tiox, ure, ture, cy, 
ty, ance, ence, ancy, ency, ment, escence, ory. 

Greek : ic, iac, ician, is, ism, cy, sy, ty. 

Of Adjectives and Adverbs, — er, or, est, st, en, ch, ern, 
ese, esque, ful, ing, y, ish, less, ly, some, ward, n, s, ce, st, xt, 
ways, wise, are our own. 

Latin and French : ble, able, ible, ic, fie, ceous, cious, tious, id, 
al, il, ite, le, eel, nal, an, ain, ean, ian, ane, ene, ine, end, cund, 
ant, ent, ar, ary, ory, t, ate, ete, ive, lent, ose, ous, pie, plex, se, 
a, tim. 

Greek : ac, ic, id, oid, gen. 

Of Verbs. — Those in ate, esce, fy, ise, ish, are from French 
and Latin ; ize, from the Greek ; en, er, are Anglo-Saxon. 

Besides the derivatives formed by the use of one or more pre- 
fixes or suffixes, or both, there is no limit to the number of com- 
pounds from two or more simples. Indeed, so simple is its syntax, 
and so limited its inflections, that, without danger of ambiguity 



SOURCES OF ENGLISH LITERATURE. 633 

or obscurity in the meaning intended, the English language 
readily adopts all names, transforms them into all necessary parts 
of speech, retaining all the elegance, and softening all the harsh- 
ness of its borrowed elements, with so much ease and rapidity, 
that the capacity of its vocabulary, now numbering about a hun- 
dred and fifteen thousand words, seems limited only by the objects 
of sense and the thoughts and deeds of men. By discovery and 
invention, words fall into disuse, or become obsolete in one or more 
senses, and receive a new signification. New words are made by 
change of spelling, by addition, transposition, or dropping of let- 
ters. 

Notwithstanding the rapid increase, in the whole number of 
words, of the words in actual use, the greater per cent are Anglo- 
Saxon : of Shakspeare and the New Testament, about ninety per 
cent; of Milton and Pope, about eighty; Webster and Junius, 
seventy-five. Of the whole number of words, it has been esti- 
mated that about sixty per cent are really Anglo-Saxon in origin ; 
thirty per cent, Latin and French ; five, Greek ; and five, miscella- 
neous. 



SOURCES OE ENGLISH LITEEATURE. 

The geometer solves a few only of the infinite variety of prob- 
lems involving the general princij^les and methods of reasoning 
he has learned; and yet he may with truth be accounted skillful 
in his science. The architect would miserably waste his time 
examining every ant-hill and log-cabin in the land for fear the 
number and builders of them would be unknown to him ; though 
architecture, in its broadest sense, might include every structure 
built by man or other animal. In almost any one branch of the 
modern sciences, facts have accumulated to such an extent as to 
render an accurate knowledge of them, and of the circumstances 
of their discovery, utterly beyond the ability of any single mind 
profitably to retain. The literature of the English language, in the 
broadest sense, may. be said to include all manuscripts and books 
written in English ; yet a comparatively few of them, and of their 
authors, can be profitably known b}^ the student. It is impossible 
for him, to say nothing of the past, to read a tithe of what is writ- 
ten at the present time. He should not attempt this ; his imme- 
diate want being a critical knowledge of the rules applicable to 
all styles, and the productions of a few authors who are admitted 
to be masters, each of his own style. Believing the stud}^ and 
imitation of the styles of a few authors to be of so much more 
importance to the young student, we would not, for purposes of 



634 ENGLISH LITERATURE. 

general education, burden liim with learning carefully the history 
of English literature, leading him from the bardic mummery of 
the Druid priests, through the monkish chronicles of the Saxon 
and semi-Saxon periods, along the theological and metaphysical 
dark ages, down to the period of the revival of learning; all 
which, undoubtedly, would be entertaining and instructive to him, 
but can be easily and profitably deferred to subsequent leisure. 
The printing-establishment of the indefatigable Caxton and that 
of "The London Times," or of a modern publishing-house, are emi- 
nently typical of the literature of the fifteenth century and that of 
the nineteenth. Besides translations of the best works of foreign 
authors, the principal sources of modern English literature are, — • 

1. Poetry, of which the principal kinds are the epic, Ij^ric, 
and didactic. The proper epic is illustrated in "Paradise Lost;" 
the burlesque, in "Hudibras." Under the epic is classed, by some, 
the dramatic, and, indeed, all poetry not didactic, lyric, or ele- 
giac. Of the lyric are the ode, song, and sacred lyrics, psalm 
and hymn. With the elegiac proper is classed the sonnet. Ac- 
cording to the subject, poetry is historical, narrative, descriptive, 
pastoral, satirical or humorous, and didactic ; having one or several 
of these elements. It is not more difficult to find prose that is 
poetical than to find poetry that is prosaic ; since neither rhjnnes 
nor measures are alone essential to poetry. It is impossible to 
predict of modern poetry, or, indeed, of modern literature, what 
will be permanent; time alone can do that : but of this we can be 
assured, that scattered through it all are the elements of heroic 
poetry and lofty prose infinitely more numerous than when the 
present great masterpieces were executed; that noble thoughts 
and deeds, marvelous workings of man and nature, far excel in 
number and magnitude the imaginary exploits of chivalrous 
knight, or even of heathen demi-god. The facts of modern sci- 
ence, the revelations of the telescope, microscope, and the spec- 
troscope, excel in grandeur and beauty the most poetical fancies 
of ancient or modern poet. 

2. Fiction, historical, political, romantic, allegorical, mj'thical, 
and legendary. Indeed, here the field is boundless, and must 
be entered upon with a faithful guide. During the period of 
school, no7i6 of it should be read by the pupil, except under the 
direction of the teacher. 

3. Histories, biographies, memoirs, essays, criticisms, lectures, 
orations, speeches, sermons, debates, and dissertations. 

4. Periodicals, — newspapers, magazines, reviews, and encyclo- 
paedias. 

5. Dramatic writings, — traged}^, comedy, farce, opera, and 
whatever may be written for the stage. 



IE"DEX OF AUTHOES. 



PAGE. 

Abbott, Jacob 200 

Abercrombie, John 379 

Addison, Joseph 506 

Ainsworth, William H 225 

Akenside, Mark 470 

Alcuin 623 

Aldhelm 623 

Alfric 623 

Alison, Sir Archibald 343, 378 

Arbuthnot, John 548 

Arnold, Matthew 265 

Arnold, Thomas 344 

Ascham, Roger 622 

Audubon, John James 201 

Austen, Jane 308 

Aytoun, William E 264 

Bacon, Francis (Viscount St. Alban's), 559 

Bacon, Leonard 190 

Bailcj', Philip James 264 

Baillie, Joanna 414 

Bale, John 624 

Bancroft, George 202 

Banin, John 228 

Barbour, John 628 

Barclay, Alexander 623 

Barclay, Robert 548 

Barham, Richard 415 

Barnes, Albert 190 

Barrow, Isaac 558 

Barry, Gerald 627 

Baxter, Richard 547 

Bayley, Thomas Ilaynes 265 

Beattic, James 471 

Beaumont, Francis 622 

Beckett, a, Gilbert Abbott 203 

Beckford, William 333 

Beddoes, Thomas Lovell 236 

Bede 628 

Beecher, Henry Ward. lOi 



PAOK. 

Bellenden, John 624 

Benedict 627 

Bentham, Jeremy 378 

BentJe>% Richard 548 

Berkeley, George 520 

Bethune, George W 190 

Bible, the 563 

Blackstone, Sir William 471 

Blair, Hugh 471 

Blair, Robert 520 

Blessington, Countess of 398 

Blind Harry 626 

Bloomfield, Robert '. 414 

Borrow, George 344 

Boswell, James 471 

Bowles, William L 414 

Bowring, Sir John 344 

Boyle, Robert 558 

Brewster, Sir David 346 

Bronte, Charlotte 226 

Brooks, Mai'ia 103 

Brooks, Shirley 226, 266 

Brough, Robert B 266 

Brougham (Lord) Henry 378 

Brown, Charles Brockden 201 

Brown, Frances 265 

Brown, Thomas 378 

Browne, Sir Thomas 558 

Browne, William 622 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 251 

Bruce, Michael 414 

Brunton, Mary 398 

Bryant, William Cullen 40 

Brydgcs, Sir Egerton 378 

Buchanan , George 622 

Buckingham, Joseph T 191 

Buckland, William 345 

Buckle, Henry Thomas 343 

Bunyan, John 532 

Burke, Edmund 415 

635 



636 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE. 

Burnet, Gilbert 543 

Burnet, Thomas 543 

Barney, Frances 303 

Burns, Robert 407 

Burton, John Hill 345 

Burton, Robert 623 

Bushncll, Horace 190 

Butler, Samuel 543 

Byron (Lord), George Gordon 379 

Casdmon 628 

Camden, William 623 

Campbell (Lord) 344 

Campbell, Thomas 309 

Carew, Thomas 622 

Carey, Henry C 201 

Carleton, William 223 

Carlylc, Thomas .v, . 347 

Cavendish, George 624 

Caxton, William 624 

Chalmers, George 397 

Chalmers, Thomas 345 

Chamberlayne, William 558 

Chambers, Robert 344 

Channing, William Ellery 189 

Chatterton, Thomas 471 

Chaucer, Geoffrey 625 

Cheever, George B 190 

Cheke, Sir John 624 

Child, Lydia Maria 200 

Churchill, Charles 471 

Clare, John 265 

Clarke, Adam 379 

Clarke, Samuel 520 

Clarke, Sarah Jane 103 

Cobbett, William 378 

Coleridge, Berwent 255 

Coleridge, Hartley 265 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 293 

Coleridge, Sara 265 

Collins, Wilkie 226,256 

Collins, William 470 

Colman, George 415 

Colman, George, the Younger 415 

Combe, George 378 

Combe, William 378 

Congreve, William 548 

Cook, Eliza 265 

Cooke, Wingrove 341 

Cooper, Anthony Ashley (Earl of 

Shaftesbury) 520 

Cooper, James Fenimore 192 

Cotton, Charles 558 

Coverdale, Miles 624 



PAOE. 

Cowley, Abraham 558 

Cowper, William 339 

Cose, William 397 

Crabbe, George 413 

Cranmer, Thomas 623 

Crashaw, Richard 623 

Croker , John Wilson 373 

Ci'oly, George *. . 414 

Crowe, Catharine 226 

Cudworth, Ralph 558 

Cumberland, Richard 415 

Cunningham, Allan 414 

Curtis, George William 192 

Dalrymple, David 397 

Dana, Richard H 103 

Daniel, Samuel 622 

Darwin , Erasmus 471 

Davenant, Sir William 558 

Davis, John Francis 344 

Davy, Sir Humphry 378 

Defoe, Daniel 498 

Dekker, Thomas 623 

Denham, Sir John 558 

Dennie, Joseph 191 

De Quincey, Thomas 361 

Dickens, Charles 203 

Dillon, Wentworth 547 

Disraeli, Benjamin 225 

Disraeli, Isaac 378 

Doddridge, Philip 471 

Douglas, Gawin 623 

Drayton, Michael 622 

Drummond, William 622 

Dryden, John 521 

Dunbar, William 623 

Dunstan 628 

Dyer, John 520 

Edgeworth, Maria 398 

Edwards, Jonathan 189 

Eliot, George 226 

Elliott, Ebenezer 415 

Ellis, Sarah 346 

Elfot, Sir Thomas 624 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo 131 

Erigena (John Scotus) 628 

Evelyn , John 558 

Everett, Alexander H 191 

Everett, Edward 281 

Fabyan, Robert 624 

Falconer, William 471 

Faraday, Michael 346 



INDEX OF AUTHOES. 



637 



PAGE. 

Farquhar, George 548 

Ferguson, Adam 471 

Ferguson, Robert 414 

Ferricr, Mary 398 

Fislier, John 624 

Fletcher, Giles 622 

Fletcher, John 622 

Fletcher, Phineas 622 

Foote, Samuel 471 

Ford, John 622 

Ford, Richard S44 

Forster, John 344 

Fortescue. Sir John 623 

Foster, John 373 

Fox, John .624 

Franklin, Benjamin ..201, 452 

Frere, J. Ilookham 414 

Froude. .James Anthony , . 343 

Fuller. Thomas 558 

Gaimar, Geoffrey 627 

Gait, John 398 

Garrick, David 471 

Gaskell, Elizabeth 225 

Gauden, John 558 

Gay, John 520 

Gervase of Tilbury 627 

Geoffrey of Monmouth 627 

Gibbon, Edward 397 

Gifford, William 414 

Gildas 628 

Gleig, George 226 

Godwin, William 39S 

Goldsmith, Oliver 458 

Goodrich, Samuel G 209 

Gore, Catherine 223 

Gower, John C26 

Grahame, James 414 

Grant, James 223 

Grattan, Thomas C 398 

Gray, Thomas 467 

Greene, Robert 622 

Griffin. Gerald 226 

Griswold, Rufus Wilmot 191 

Grote, George 344 

Hakluyt, Richard 623 

Hall, Anna M 226 

Hall, Edward 624 

Hall, Joseph 623 

Hall, Robert 379 

Hallam , Henry 397 

Halleck, Fitz-Greene 103 

Hamilton, Alexander 190 



PAGE. 

Hamilton, Elizabeth 398 

Hamilton. Sir William 346 

Hannay , James 226 

Hawes, Stephen 623 

Hawthorne. Xathaniel 175 

Hazlitt, William 378 

Head, Sir Francis 344 

Heber. Reginald 414 

Helps, Arthur 346 

Hcmans, Felicia 414 

Henry of Huntingdon 627 

Henry. Matthew 548 

Henrj'son, Robert 623 

Herbert. George 623 

Herrick, Robert 622 

Herschel, Sir John 378 

Hervcy, Thomas Kibble 265 

Heywood, John 623 

Hildrcth, Richard 202 

Hillard, George Stillman 191 

Hobbes, Thomas 623 

Hoffman, Charles Fenno 103 

Hogg, James 414 

Holcroft, Thomas 415 

Holland, Josiah Gilbert 192 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell 77 

Homes, Henry (Lord Kames) 520 

Hood, Thomas , 303 

Hook, Walter F 344 

Hooker, Richard 622 

Hope, Thomas 398 

Hopkins, Mark 190 

Hopkinson, Francis 191 

Hopkinson, Joseph 103 

Home, John 470 

Home, Richard Henry 265 

Hovcden, de, Roger 627 

Howard, Henry (Earl of Surrey) 623 

Howell James 623 

Hughes, Thomas 226 

Hume. David 445 

Hunt, Leigh 414 

Hyde, Edward (Earl of Clarendon) 558 

Inchbald, Elizabeth 398 

Ingelow, Jean 265 

Inglis, Henry D 344 

Ingulphus 627 

Inncs, Cosmo 344 

Irving, Edward 379 

Irving, Washington 147 

Iscauus, Josephus, or Joseph of Exeter, 627 



James, G. P. R. . . . 



225 



638 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



Jameson, Anna 345 

Jay, John 190 

Jay, William 191 

Jefierson, Thomas 191 

Jeffrey, Francis (Lord) 37S 

Jerrold, Douglas 225 

Jewsbury, Geraldine 226 

Johnson, Samuel 431 

Jones, Sir William 414 

Jonson , Ben 622 

Junius 423 

Keats, John 414 

Keblc, John 415 

Key, Francis S 103 

King, Alfred 628 

King James I. of Scotland 626 

King James I .,. . 623 

Kinglake, Alexander W 344 

Kingsley, Charles • . 225 

Kirkland, Caroline M 201 

Knight, Charles 344 

Knowles, Sheridan 264 

Knox, John 624 

Laing, Malcolm 397 

Laing, Samuel 344 

Lamb, Charles 368 

Landor, Walter S 378 

Langlande, Robert 626 

Lardner, Dionysius 346 

Latimer, Hugh 6:^4 

Layamon 627 

I^ayard, Austen Henry 344 

Lee, Sophia 398 

Leland, John 624 

Lemon , Mark 266 

Lever, Charles 225 

Lewes, George Henry 344 

Lewis, Sir George C 345 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory 398 

Leyden, John 414 

Lindsay, Sir David 624 

Lingard, John 397 

Livingstone, David 344 

Locke , John 547 

Lockhart, John Gibson 344 

Logan, John 414 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 54 

Lord Berners 624 

Lord Herbert 623 

Lovelace, Richard 553 

Lover, Samuel 226 

Lowell, James Russell 1 89 I 



I PAGE. 

Lydgate, John 626 

I Lyell, Sir Charles , 345 

I Lytton, Sir Edward Bulwcr 225 

! Macaulay, Thomas Babington 321 

1 Macdonald, George 265 

j Mackay, Charles 265 

Mackensie, Henry 398 

Macpherson, James 471,628 

Madison , James 190 

Mandeville, Sir John de 628 

Mantel, Gideon 346 

Marlowe, Christopher 622 

Marryatt, Frederick 225 

Marsh, Anne 226 

Marshall, John 190 

Marston, Westland 266 

Martineau, Harriet • • 345 

Marvel, Andrew 558 

Mason, William C 471 

Massey, Gerald 265 

Massinger, Philip 622 

Masson, David 344 

Mather, Cotton 202 

Maturin, Charles R 415 

Maxwell, William H 226 

Mayhew, Henry 266 

McClintock, Sir Leopold. 344 

McClure, Sir Robert 344 

McCrie. Thomas 397 

M'Culloch, J Ramsay 379 

Mcintosh, Sir James 397 

Merlin 628 

Mill, James 397 

Mill, John Stuart 346 

Miller, Hugh 346 

Milman. Henry Hart 265 

Milnes, Richard Monckton 265 

Milton, John 548 

Minot, Laurence 626 

Mitford, Mary 398 

Mitford, William 397 

Montagu (Lady), Mary Wortley 520 

Montgomery, James 414 

More, Hannah 414 

More, Sir Thomas 623 

Morgan, Lady 398 

Morier, James 398 

Motherwell, William 265 

Moore, Henry 547 

Moore, John 398 

Moore, Thomas 413 

Motley, John Lothrop 266 

Mulock, Dinah Maria 226 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



639 



PAGB. 

Murchison , Sir Eoderick 346 

Mure, William , . 345 

Murray, Limlley 191 

Napier, "William 397 

Neale, John 201 

Nennius 628 

Newton, Sir Isaac 520 

Nicoll, Robert 265 

Occleve, Thomas 626 

Oliphant, Laurence 344 

Opie, Amelia 398 

Orm, or Ormin 627 

Osborne, Capt. Sherrard 344 

Ossian 628 

Ossoli, d', Margaret Fuller 191 

Otway, Thomas 547 

Owen, John 547 

Owen, Richard 346 

Paine, Thomas 191 

Paley, "William 471 

Palfrey, Jolin Gorham 18J 

Palgrave, Sir Francis 34-1 I 

Paris, Matthew 627 I 

Parker, Theodore 190 : 

Parnell, Thomas 520 1 

Patmorc, Coventry 235 j 

Paulding, James Kirkc 200 | 

Payne, John Howard 103 j 

Peabody, Andrew P 190 | 

Penn, "William 548 [ 

Pepys, Samuel 553 j 

Percival, James Gates 103 

Percy, Thomas , . . . . 471 

Phillips, Ambrose 520 

Phillips, John 547 

Pierpont, John 103 

Pinkerton , John 397 

Pk'gmund (323 

Poc, Edgar Allan 100 

Pollok, Robert 415 

Pope, Alexander 472 

Porson, Richard 37U 

Porter, Anna 308 

Porter, Jane 308 

Porter, Josias 344 

Praed, "Winthrop Mackworth 235 

Prescott, William Hickling 202 

I'rior, Matthew 547 

Procter, Bryan Walter 235 

Purchas, Samuel 623 

Quarles, Francis 623 

Quincy, Josiah 202 



PAGE. 

Radcliffe, Anne 398 

Rae , Dr 344 

Ragg, Thomas 235 

Raleigh, Sir Walter 622 

Ramsay, Allan 520 

Ray, John 558 

Reach, Angus B 226 

Reade, Charles 223 

Reade, John Edmund 265 

Reed, Henry 191 

Reid, Mayne 226 

Reid, Thomas 471 

Ricardo, David 378 

Robinson, Edward 189 

Rogers, Samuel 413 

Roscoe, William 397 

Rowe, Nicholas 520 

Rush* Jicnjamin 201 

Ruskin, John 345 

Russell (Lady), Rachel 548 

Russell, William H 345 

Sackville, Charles 547 

Sackville, Thomas 622 

Sala, George Augustus 226 

Savage, Richard 520 

Saxe, John Godfrey 103 

Scott, Sir Walter 385 

Sedgwick, Catherine Maria 200 

Sedley, Charles 547 

Selden, John 623 

Shakppcare, William 565 

Shcil, Richard Lalor. 266 

Shelley, Mary 398 

Shelley, Percy Bj'sshe 414 

Shenstone, William 470 

Sheridan, Richard Brinsley 414 

Sherlock, William 548 

Shirley, James 623 

Sidney, Algernon 558 

Sidney, Sir Philip 622 

Sigourney, Lj-TIia Huntley 103, 200 

Simms, William Gilmore 200 

Skelton, John 623 

Sracdley, Frank 226 

Smith, Adam 471 

Smith, Albert 226 

Smith, Charlotte 398 

Smith, Horace 414 

Smith. James 414 

Smith, Scba 201 

Smith, Sydney 378 

Smith, William 346 

Somer\'ille, Mary 346 

Sotberby, William 414 



640 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



PAGE. 

South, Robert 558 

Southey , Robert 264 

Southey, Caroline Anne 264 

Southwell, Robert 622 

Sparks, Jared 202 

Spencer, Hon. William R 414 

Spenser, Edmund 619 

Sprague, William B 189 

Sprat, Thomas 648 

Stanhope. Earl 344 

Stanhope, Philip (Earl of Chesterfield), 520 

St. Columbanus 623 

Steele, Sir Richard 520 

Sterne, Laurence 471 

Stewart, Dugald 378 

Stillingfleet, Edward 548 

Strickland, Agnes 344 

Strickland, Elizabeth 344 

Strype. John ..'H • 548 

St. John, Henry (Viscount Bolingbroke) 520 

Stowe, Harriet Beecher 200 

Suckling, Sir John 623 

Sullivan, William 191 

Sumner, Charles 275 

Swain, Charles 265 

Swift, Jonathan 483 

Talfourd, Sir Thomas Noon 286 

Taliesi n 628 

Tannahill, Robert 414 

Taylor, Bayard 192 

Taylor, Henry 266 

Taylor, Isaac 345 

Taylor, Jeremy 558 

Taylor, Tom 256 

Tennant, William 415 

Tennent, Sir James Emerson 344 

Temple, Sir William 558 

^ Tennyson, Alfred 227 

Thackeray, William Makepeace 215 

Thirlwall, Connop 344 

Thorn, Willi.nm 265 

Tickell, Thomas 520 

Ticknor, George 202 

Tighe, Mary 414 

Tillotson, John 558 

Tilton, Theodore 103 

Tookc, John Home 373 

Trcvisa, dc, John 626 

TroUope, Anthony 223 

TroHope, Frances 398 

Trollopc, Thomas A 345 

Tuckcrman, Henry Theodore 191 

Tudor, William 191 



Tupper, Martin Farquhar 264 

Turner, Sharon 397 

Tusser, Thomas 622 

Tyndale, William 623 

Tytler, Patrick Fraser 397 

Udall, Nicholas 624 

Ussher, Jamea 623 

Vanbrug, Sir John 548 

Vaughn , Henry 558 

Vaughn, Robert 344 

Vilatis, Ordencus 627 

Wace 627 

Waller, Edmund 558 

Walpole, Horace 471 

Walton, Izaak 623 

Warburton, Eliot 344 

Ward R. Plumer 398 

Ware, William 200 

Warren, Samuel 226 

Warton, Joseph 470 

Warton, Thomas 470 

Waterton, Charles 344 

Watts, Alaric Alexander 265 

Watts, Isaac 520 

Wayland, Francis .... 189 

Webster, Daniel 286 

Webster, Noah 191 

Wesley, John 471 

Whately, Richard 346 

1 AVhewell, William 346 

White, Gilbert 471 

AVliite, Henry Ivirke 414 

Whittier, John Greenleaf 67 

Whipple, Edwin P 192 

William of Malmesbury 627 

Willis, Nathaniel Parker 86 

Wilmot, John -547 

Wilson, Alexander 201, 379 

Wilson, John 345 

Wilson, Thomas 623 

Winthrop, John 202 

Wirt, William 191 

Wolfe, Charles 415 

Woodworth, Samuel 103 

Worcester, Joseph E 161 

Wordsworth, William 242 

Wotton, Sir Henry 622 

Wyatt, Sir Thomas 624 

1 Wycherley, William 548 

1 Wycliffe, de, John 626 

; Wynkyn de Worde 624 

Wyntoun,/4"<ircw 626 



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